Whatever Remains, However Improbable
by hum-hum-humbug
Summary: "John, would you do one last thing for him?" "Anything Mycroft. You must know that I'd do anything for him." "Let it go. My brother is not alive. Please, don't pursue this." How inconvenient. Letting go of Sherlock is the one thing he can't do.He saw Sherlock take the fall but when you've ruled out the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable must be the truth.
1. Prologue

A/N: This fic is halfway almost done and already 20000 words long. I'll be posting every Friday. Rating will go up as we move along. I really value your feedback!

**Whatever Remains, However Improbable****Chapter (1/20)****  
****Rating R (for now)****  
****Pairings: John/Sherlock, John/Mary**Summary: He was so alone and he owes Sherlock so much, he owes Sherlock his life. The new John Watson is heartbroken but not _broken_by the death of his best friend. Sherlock has changed him forever. He doesn't go back to living the way he did after Afghanistan. Sherlock's suicide doesn't make sense and he is determined to find out why. He soon finds threads that might unravel the mystery of the detective's death. Why does it feel like Sherlock is by his side, helping him along? Why is Sherlock haunting him?

OoOoOoOo

Chapter 1

The Afghan desert had left John hollow and broken. It had been the worst of companions, had trained him to need the adrenaline, to lust after the unbearable heat and to be comforted by the terror of battle. John was broken upon his return to London. Sherlock had been so similar to the war in so many ways: requiring John to jump into combat, giving him a taste of the chaos he craved and allowing him an escape from solitude. But there was one thing everyone was overlooking, all the people who looked at him with pity, looked at him like someone who had been taken in, a dumb pet who had been used and discarded. Donovan and Anderson and anyone else who had ever been humiliated and tormented by Sherlock's brutal honesty felt it necessary to murmur a light: "Ah, told you so. Knew he was a fake" in the wake of his death. And since anyone who had ever met Sherlock was left feeling exposed and angry, John found himself facing many whispers wherever he went.

What they thought was that John took care of Sherlock, sacrificed for him blindly while Sherlock took from him without a thought. What they failed to see was that Sherlock had given John more than John had given him: a life. Sherlock was chaos and excitement and for the first few weeks of living in 221B Baker Street John could not even believe that the magical world in which he was living was one he was allowed to inhabit. He could not believe that he was shooting criminals through windows, chasing madmen across London, jumping into the Thames or being strapped to an amount of explosives that (John's military training reminded him) was usually reserved for decimating an M1 Abrams army tank. Sherlock had granted John access to his life. To others the consulting detective burned so bright that he made everyone pale in comparison-but _that _is where they were wrong. John knew that, really, Sherlock burned so bright that he could not help but illuminate everything around him, make everything a little more interesting, a little more fun. John had never been braver, smarter or better than when he was with Sherlock.

His entire life had taken shape around the existence of that infuriating, brilliant, gorgeous man and so it is entirely expected that Sherlock's death broke him in a way that the war couldn't have. It is expected that he spends the first week after the fall muffling his sobs in his pillow at night. It is expected that he feels his heart ache against his ribcage, expanding and twisting until he is ready to admit that (despite his years of medical training) "heartache" might actually be a real ailment and one could possibly die from that pain. It is expected that he stumbles through the funeral, not remembering much, almost punching Mycroft, almost collapsing from the emotional exhaustion.

The John before Sherlock would not have been able to continue, would have gone back to the hole-in-the-wall apartment and spent his days walking, sleeping and wishing he did not exist and, possibly, granting himself that one last wish. The John before Sherlock could not have withstood the _loss _because he had never felt what it was like to _have._

"Just so you know, you thoughtless git, it's harder to be alone by yourself once you've learned to be alone with somebody else," he proclaims to his empty living room. His new flat is very grey and entirely sleek and impossibly new and as unlike 221B as he could possibly manage.

OoOoOoO

Sherlock had changed him forever. The post-Sherlock John can't help but think of the facts, even as he is crushed by grief: Sherlock's suicide makes no sense. He recycles the thought through his mind a few times to make sure it isn't just the sleep-deprivation talking. He is like a man in an insane asylum, a man thoroughly deranged but held to sanity by one thread, one sane thought and that thought is: Sherlock's suicide makes no sense. He is too tired to know what that thought implicates but it filled him with something akin to happiness. He clings onto it with all he has.

He swishes the sentence around in his mouth like a particularly good wine:

"Sherlock's suicide makes no sense."

OoOoOoO

"_John! John! You see but, as ever, you don't observe."_

"Alright, alright," John huffs, "I'm trying."

He knows voicing his newfound obsession with solving the mystery of Sherlock's death would make him appear crazy-a man thoroughly unhinged by his friend's death.

"John, don't you imagine that maybe you are trying to make this into a case because that would let you hold on to him a little longer? One last case?" his psychiatrist would probably say, "aren't you doing this because the thought of your friend committing suicide is too painful? You want to give meaning to something that is just as it appears."

John would be thoroughly annoyed by that and would try to deduce some cruel things to say to her. Was her husband cheating? Was her daughter getting eloped in Las Vegas? He wasn't Sherlock. No point in telling her about his new case if he had no comeback to her nonsense.

Then there would be Mrs. Hudson. "Oh dear! It isn't decent trying to meddle with the dead. No use trying to make sense of why that boy did anything that he did in his entire life, no good trying to figure out that head of his. Mind, sometimes I thought he was right crazy—"

Yes. Mrs. Hudson would be annoying about it.

And Lestrade would be simple about it, elegant almost. "Mate, I…wish he hadn't done it but…I'm sorry."

"_Don't listen to them John. What good is it anyway to consult idiots to determine the motives of a genius? You, while not the brightest of people, are at least smarter than those people."_

For the first time since meeting Sherlock, Dr. John Hamish Watson admitts the following to himself: he is a smart man. Compared to Sherlock he is an idiot. By any other standards John is smart. He can solve this.

"_Yes, stop flattering yourself. The facts John! What are the facts? What are the irregularities that lead you to believe that this was not a suicide?"_

"Right," John said to his sofa, it was difficult to talk about Sherlock's death, "the irregularities…you said to tell everyone that you were a fake," he needs a deep breath before going on, "I know you're not. So that removes the supposed motive for the suicide. So then…_why_? Why did you do it? There is no other motive. Moriarty was already dead. We could have cleared your name."

"_That's it? You're basing the entire case on the motives of the victim. How simple of you. As always you forget the need for evidence. I admitted to being a fake. Why would you think that I'm not?"_

"I know you," John whispers to the corners of his room.

"_Oh John. Please do keep your day job at the surgery. You're willing to risk this case because you have faith in someone?"_

"No Sherlock. I'm willing to risk _everything _because I have faith in you," John chokes out.

The imaginary Sherlock that has been haunting him falls silent at the display of emotion. John sits still in the dusk, his grey furniture tinted blue by the light from the telly, which he keeps on for company but only on mute. He closes his eyes and imagines some angry notes on the violin.

"See? I knew that would shut you up," he says to the Sherlock that was a figment of his imagination.

No answer. John isn't sure whether or not to be glad.

OoOoOoO

"_As I explained to you John I researched you in order to impress you. It was all a trick."_

"That stuff about Harry is not on the internet."

"_The internet? How pedestrian. Why would I bother with Google when I've got Mycroft?"_

"Ok, fine. You had Mycroft that time, he can find out anything about anyone. What about everything else?"

"_I'm sure I have no idea what you mean. Everything I did can be explained through resourcefulness."_

John has to bury his face in his hands to keep from screaming. How is an imaginary version of Sherlock causing him so much grief?

"You know exactly what I'm talking about, you absolute git."

OoOoOoOoOoOoOo

It's a month before Sherlock's death that John returns to the flat from one of the worst days of his life. He is soaked from the London rain.

"John, how many times must I ask you to hand me my phone?" Sherlock sighs.

John barely contains his annoyance, "I don't know. I don't have supersonic hearing and can't hear you when I'm on the other side of London."

"Oh," Sherlock hops off the sofa, oblivious to his mood, "you've been out."

"Brilliant deduction Mr. Holmes," John sighs, setting some of the shopping on the counter, "you're not the only consulting detective in the world for naught."

When he looks back at Sherlock, something has changed. Sherlock is looking at him with something akin to…sentiment.

"Oh John," he breathes softly, cocking his head to one side, "sit down."

For once John doesn't argue and plops down on his favorite chair, closing his eyes.

"How is she John?" Sherlock asks.

"What…how did…" John doesn't even bother asking how Sherlock knows. He closes his eyes again, "she's fine."

"But you're not," Sherlock says softly, still standing in the middle of the room, eyes never moving from Sherlock's face.

"Go on then. Deduce me. Why not?"

"John I didn't—"

"No I mean it," John snaps, "go on. I want to hear it."

Sherlock sighs. "There is vomit on the sleeve of your jacket. Your breath smells very slightly of alcohol, I could only smell it when you walked closer to me, there is no sign that you've been sick. You aren't pale and you aren't that drunk. So you didn't vomit from alcohol then. Now, you're a doctor so the vomit could be from a patient but you're meticulous, you would never leave the office covered in a patient's sick. Not a patient then. Who would you be around who would vomit? Harry, because she almost drank enough to kill herself but she texted you and you took care of her and when you were sure that she would not die, you left her apartment in a rush, angry. Clearly you had no time to clean up. You went for a drink after leaving Harry's to take your mind off of…it. A girl in the bar gave you her number…"

John cracks open an eye to look at Sherlock.

"Would you like me to stop?" Sherlock asks softly. He looks hesitant for the first time John has known him.

"No."

"She wrote her number on a napkin but folded the napkin before giving it to you. Why? She wanted you to have her number to call her later but she didn't want everyone to see you had her number. She has a boyfriend. A boyfriend who did _not _know he was dealing with an ex-army doctor when he tried to punch you. You have no bruises on you but the knuckles of your right hand are swollen. Poor man. I wouldn't like to see the shape of his face. He picked the wrong day for bravado."

"How did you know about the girl?" John wonders.

"You put a napkin on the kitchen table with the grocery bag. It has the name of a bar on it, I can't see what's on it because it's folded neatly in half. Why would you keep a napkin if there was nothing on it? No, she wrote her number on it, folded it and handed it to you. You took it, punched her boyfriend and headed out without even thinking about the fact that you were still holding the napkin. It's perfectly smooth where you held it but the edges are soaked by the rain because they weren't covered by your hand."

John is looking at him in awe, Sherlock walks towards him, eyes fixed straight at him.

"Anything else?" John wonders.

"You're upset."

"You're a right genius," John snaps.

"You have your wallet so you could've taken a cab," Sherlock continues, "but you're completely soaked so you elected to walk. Don't sad people do that?"

"Sherlock Holmes dissects emotions," John mutters grumpily, "all done?"

"You have bags under your eyes," Sherlock murmurs, "but I know you've slept adequately in the past 48 hours because we haven't had a case. And you're shivering."

Sherlock grabs the throw-blanket from the sofa, pulls it over John and sits down on the chair across from him. They are sitting in the dark. Thunder roars outside. Rain thrashes against the windows.

Sherlock is silent for a brief moment and looks away from John before speaking. "You were favoring your left leg heavily when you walked in. Your right leg was hurting gain, even though you know it's psychosomatic. You're frightened that it's coming back."

John doesn't say anything. He follows Sherlock's eyes to the groceries in the kitchen.

"And even though you were tired and scared and cold, you stopped to get what, from the look of those bags, can only be the chocolate biscuits that I like," Sherlock says softly, looking down at his hands, "because you know I've been bored and moody and not eating."

Neither of them says anything. Sherlock is looking him like he's never seen him before.

"That Sherlock," John smiles, wrapping the blanket around him tightly, "was brilliant. As always. Absolutely bloody brilliant."

Sherlock seems baffled by the positive reception of his deductions. He fears that he's taken it one step too far this time.

"Elementary," Sherlock assures John, "though I do have the advantage of knowing your habits."

"Still. Bloody fantastic. One look and you knew how my day was without asking," he mutters, "I wish Janette could pick up on that skill."

He feels awkward for having said that his girlfriend should be more similar to Sherlock but the detective only smirks and asks: "Which one is Janette again?"

"Sherlock! You've met her. Three times."

"But they're all so—"

"Boring," John finishes for him, "well at least you'll never be that Sherlock. You might be a lot of things but not boring."

Sherlock smiles. "I'll make some tea."

"You can make tea?"

"Of course I can make tea, John. I'm not a child."

"But you do a brilliant impression of one."

"Very witty Dr. Watson," Sherlock spits on his way to the kitchen.

When Sherlock returns with tea John is just grateful to have something warm to hold on to. He is tired and drowsy and the tea warms his throat and stomach. The rain picks up outside.

"John," Sherlock says quietly and John knows he's being fixed with that smoldering stare even though his eyes are closed.

"Hmmm?" he cracks on eyes open.

"You shouldn't have to do that," he waves a hand toward the puke on John's sleeve.

"Thanks Sherlock. I'm okay."

And then, so quietly that John almost doesn't hear: "You are…you know that I…she doesn't deserve you either."

He doesn't say anything. He closes his eyes and lets the tea warm him. Sherlock really makes excellent tea. He should take advantage of this newfound knowledge.

Sherlock plays something incredibly sad on the violin and it mixes in with the sound of rain like it's meant to. Something that makes John want to cry or else hold Sherlock in a tight embrace so that he can't play anymore. But he's so tired and he can't keep his eyes open.

"John," Sherlock says as he plays, "thank you for the biscuits."

"This is the closest thing to an _I love you _that I'm ever going to get from Sherlock Holmes," John muses as he falls asleep.


	2. Chapter 1

C**hapter 1 (Part 2/23)**

**The Many Dreams of Dr. John H. Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers**

The old John would have lived like a machine. But the John who has had the blessing of having known Sherlock quits his job at the surgery (boring) and gets a job at University College Hospital. He wishes he could work at Bart's but he can't do it for the same reason he can't move back to 221B. They are haunted. It's painful to get a real job because it means admitting that he won't be flying off to crime scenes again. He has a real job. He treats patients and teaches interns and he remembers that people like him and respect him and that he's a good doctor.

_"But people are so terribly mundane John."_

Yes. Yes, they are. Everything is boring compared to Sherlock but he knows that if he doesn't go through the charade of living a normal life he will drive himself mad.

Still he won't give up the part of him that is Sherlock's colleague. He convinces himself that if he has a real job and goes on dates and tells his patients jokes, he should be allowed to keep this one thing that makes him truly happy. When he gets back from the hospital, whether he gets back in the evening or at dawn after the night shift, he goes to his wall of evidence: newspaper clippings, diagrams of Bart's, a chronological list of everything that happened to Sherlock in the last 48 hours of his life. He hopes that seeing all of this information in one place will clear things up.

He replays the last conversation that he ever had with his best friend.

"Why did you say those things Sherlock? It was so unlike you. Were you giving me a clue?"

"_Don't be obvious. Leaving clues in my suicide note? That's awfully romantic, not very elegant."_

"But you left a note. That's awfully sentimental," John says to his wall of evidence, "you left a note."

And that sentence sparks a memory in his mind. He is transported back to the first time he stepped foot in 221B, Sherlock is standing by the window, cool and completely untouchable. He is illuminated by the sunlight and Lestrade is standing by the door. John is looking at them from the outside, not yet realizing what this man would come to mean to him but intrigued nonetheless.

"_You know how they never leave a note? This one did," _Leatrade says.

John is jolted back to his Camden apartment with a sudden burst of hope.

"Our first case together Sherlock, do you remember it?"

"_Obviously. I'll remind you that my faculties of memory are unparalleled."_

"The pink lady's note seemed sentimental and her death looked like a suicide," John reasons frantically as he jots down this new bit of information on his wall of evidence in chalk, he is suddenly fixed with such energy that he hasn't experienced since before Bart's, "but you knew better. It was murder."

"_I hate redundancy John. I don't need a solved case retold. Boring."_

John decidedly ignores the voice. "It would be elegant if…" John stops unable to utter the words "your murder" and starts over: "perhaps…"

"_It would be elegant indeed if I echoed the Jennifer Wilson case. If, defeated and forced to take my own life, I left clues in my note that would lead you to my killer. Neat."_

"Is that what happened?" John mutters to no one in particular, resting his forehead on the chalky wall. He wonders how much he'll be charged for ruining the wall. "Were you pushed off that ledge by an invisible hand?"

_"I can't tell you that now, can I? It would take the fun out of the whole thing. I'm afraid you'll have to use your brain for once."_

OoOoOoO

If John tires himself enough he can sleep. He takes double shifts at the hospital and he talks to patients for hours. He doesn't think anyone notices but one day the pretty blonde nurse winks at him while handing over a file and says: "why if it isn't the double-shift doctor himself!"

John blinks back at her, having previously thought he was invisible or at least that his habits were. "What?"

"Leave some for the others Dr. Watson," she says and he notices that her eyes are the most brilliant shade of green he has ever seen, "or you might work yourself to death."

"You seem to work just as hard as I do," he returns with a half smile.

"Well, I suppose we'll keep each other company then."

Yes he has a pint of two with his fellow doctors and he goes on a few dates with Mary but mostly he pours his soul into the mystery of Sherlock's death. This is what keeps him going, keeps him from slipping into depression. He ensures that by the times he is in bed he has no energy to do anything but sleep. Except sometimes he doesn't quite succeed in exhausting himself.

On those nights he dreams. Dreams of Afghanistan are now replaced by dreams of Sherlock.

At first he watches Sherlock plummet to his death over and over again. The same scene plays out in front of him.

Once he tries to run to Sherlock but Moriarty steps out of the shadows and wraps his arms around him, pinning him to the spot. Sherlock opens his arms and dives gracefully. For a moment he flies, and then he falls.

"No, no, no," John cries, trying to run to him, trying to catch him in his arms but Moriarty's grip is iron and he is held back.

"Shhh Johnny boy," Moriarty coos in his ear, "mommy and daddy are playing. Don't you worry your pretty little head about it."

And when Sherlock is lifeless and blood is pooling on the ground, Moriarty finally lets John go with a small chuckle.

"I made him dance John," he purrs, "I made him dance. Isn't he pretty when he dances?"

And John wakes up sobbing loudly, he wakes up twisting in agony and drenched in sweat and he lies awake and physically aches for Sherlock. He aches for Sherlock until he passes out from the pain.

OoOoOoO

He dreams that Moriarty and Sherlock are taunting him.

He is on the Bart's rooftop and Sherlock is standing on the ledge. Moriarty looks exceedingly pleased.

"Sherlock, stop it," John snaps and fixes his gun on Moriarty, "I'm here now. I've got you."

Moriarty and Sherlock look at each other and laugh.

"Dear, sweet John," Moriarty purrs, "he really is cute Sherlock, I can see why you kept him around for so long."

"Yes, he's not quite as boring as the rest of them," Sherlock says, stepping down from the ledge gracefully and walking over to Moriarty, "but he's getting on a bit."

John watches in horror as Sherlock wraps an arm around Moriarty's shoulder.

"W-what?" John stammers, lowering his gun. The two geniuses chuckle at the expression on his face.

"Don't you _see _John?" Sherlock sighs, his cold, beautiful eyes fixed on John. Moriarty drapes an arm around Sherlock and John has to fight the urge to vomit.

"Oh he really is as stupid as he looks," Moriarty chides, "John, Detective sexy-pants and I have had loads of fun keeping each other amused. We really get bored quite easily."

"You were in this together?" John says, aghast.

"Oh I _wish _we were together," Moriarty says, looking at Sherlock hungrily, "but we were more like playmates."

"And now we're done. We're done playing with each other…"Sherlock nods.

"And we can't stand being bored," Moriarty smiles, "so we've decided it's time for us to take a fall. Together."

"You-You two decided to…" John stammers, falling to his knees, "a suicide pact?"

"No," Moriarty says, "don't be tacky. Don't call it that."

"John tends towards the sensational my dear Jim. Don't mind him," Sherlock coos. "We're rather bored with you idiots John. We'd rather be dead. Death isn't boring."

Sherlock walks back to the edge of the roof and Moriarty pulls out a gun.

"Dying together," Moriarty murmurs, "it's sorta romantic, don't you think sweetie?"

"Shut up," Sherlock says with a fond smile. "On the count of three Jim?"

"One," Jim says, placing the barrel of the gun in his mouth.

"Sherlock, look at me," John sobs, on his knees. Sherlock turns around to look at him. They lock eyes, John's eyes beg him and search for a glimmer of the man that hides behind the mask. Sherlock's eyes don't betray a thing.

"Two," Sherlock says deliberately, defiantly. He delivers it like a stab to John's heart and John feels another sob escape his throat.

"Please Sherlock," John fights to get out the words through his tears, "please."

Sherlock turns away from him and spreads his arms wide and tips forward slightly.

"Please. I love you," John cries in a voice that cannot be human.

He can't see Sherlock's face but Sherlock's body falters for a moment, his hands slacken, he leans back from the edge.

But it's just a second of hesitation, in the next Sherlock is tipping forward once more, his coat spreading like wings around him.

"Three," he cries as he falls. There is a gunshot. There is Moriarty's blood. Sherlock is gone.

"No, no, no," John sobs into the asphalt, he face digging into the ground, Moriarty's blood pooling on the roof.

He wakes up on the floor, suffocating in the sheets that cling to him, drenched with sweat. And this time he doesn't wake up crying, he wakes up howling like a wounded animal. He is howling like an animal that needs to be put out of its misery.

OoOoOoO

He dreams that he saves Sherlock and that is the cruelest dream yet.

He is holding the cell phone to his ears but he is on the rooftop with Sherlock, looking at his back as Sherlock talks to him on the phone.

"I'm behind you Sherlock," he says softly and the man at the ledge turns around to look at him, face wet with tears. John stuffs the cell phone away in his pocket, Sherlock throws his phone aside. He starts to walk over to Sherlock, to pull him down.

"John," he says warningly, "stay back."

"Shut up Sherlock. Just shut up."

"I'm serious. Stay back. I'll jump before you get here," he says, tears streaming down his face, "I'm a fake. I'm not what you thought I was."

"I don't care," John whispers, still walking towards him. "I'm here now. We're in this together."

"I'm alone John."

"No you're not."

"You're not my friend," Sherlock says bitingly, "leave me alone."

"I might not be your friend," John says calmly, refusing to be hurt by Sherlock's attempts, "but you're mine."

Sherlock narrows his eyes and takes one foot off the ledge, preparing to jump. John is only a few arms lengths away from him now. He pulls out his gun and points it at his own temple.

"What are you doing, you idiot?" Sherlock snaps, resting his dangling foot back down on the ledge.

"I don't want to live without you," John explains calmly, "surely you don't mind what happens to me if you jump? I'm not your friend remember?"

Sherlock laughs at this stunt. It's a broken laugh. John doesn't stop moving towards him, gun still pointed at his own temple. At last when he is at Sherlock's side, he puts the gun away and pulls Sherlock into his arms.

Unexpectedly, Sherlock folds into his arms like a child, melts into him until they both collapse on the roof. Sherlock is crying into his lapels. He holds back his tears because he figures one of them has to keep it together. Sherlock is thin and broken and terribly terribly alive in his arms.

"Why did you come b-back for me?" Sherlock manages to get out. "It would have been better if you just let me go. You're better off without me."

"Shut the fuck up Sherlock," John snaps, holding him tighter, he is warm and fragile on top of John. "Whatever it is, we're going to fix it."

"There's nothing to fix John. I've been lying to you," Sherlock says with some regained composure. He wraps his long arms around John, "I am nothing."

"You're everything ," John whispers into Sherlock's hair, so softly that he Sherlock might not have heard him. They cling to each other desperately, afraid of what might happen if they let go.

John wakes up and reaches over to the other side of the bed to find it cold and empty. This time he doesn't cry, he doesn't make a single noise, he doesn't thrash until his body is sore. He stays completely still, listening to the sound of his own breathing as he feels, he distinctly_ feels_, his heart shattering into a million tiny pieces.

OoOoOoO

John doesn't dream often because he doesn't have time to dream. He won't allow himself time to dream. When he does dream it's always terrible and so full of Sherlock.

He is standing in the street, watching Sherlock stand on the roof of Bart's.

"You could save me if you knew how to fly," Sherlock says sadly.

"Don't Sherlock," John pleads into the phone. "Don't. Please. I'll try, okay? I'll try to—"

"No. You can't. You're normal. You can't fly. It's okay," Sherlock says softly, unlike himself, "I'm sorry I lied to you. Goodbye John."

"No."

And suddenly Donovan and Anderson and Sebastian and a whole hoard of people who hate Sherlock appear at the foot of St. Bart's to shout and laugh as Sherlock falls. John cries out to him and starts to run and Sherlock falls and—

Before he sees Sherlock hit the ground, he is suddenly transported. Suddenly John is no longer running but seated in front of a fire in 221B Baker Street. Sherlock is facing the window and playing the violin. It's a soft tune and John never remembers the title but it's a bittersweet lullaby that never fails to put John at ease and Sherlock plays it so often when John has trouble sleeping that John wonders if Sherlock knows it soothes him. John is breathing heavily, heart still racing from his nightmare.

"What is it John?" Sherlock inquires. He's stopped playing but he doesn't have to turn around to know that something is wrong with his flatmate, "is it the leg or the shoulder?"

"Just a nightmare. I drifted off a bit," John brushes it off.

"Afghanistan?" Sherlock asks, setting down the violin and fixing John with the full magnitude of his stare. It never ceases to amaze John that being the subject of Sherlock's stare can be so thoroughly electrifying and unsettling.

"No…I don't remember what the dream was," John admits truthfully, "but you were in it and I was running."

Sherlock's lips curve into a smirk as he walks over to where John is sitting.

"You have nightmares about me? Well, I do try to be terrifying. I scare most people."

"There is nothing about you that scares me," John says softly.

"No?" Sherlock smiles and kneels beside John's chair, two fingers finding John's wrist and taking his pulse.

"No."

"Well, your pulse begs to differ," Sherlock murmurs, grinning wickedly. He glows in the warm light from the fire and for once he looks human, not cold and not far off. "If I'm not as petrifying as I try to be, what pray-tell am I doing in your nightmares? And why are you running away from me?"

"I think that in the nightmare…I was running after you," John tries to remember but the dream slips away from him, "I think that the nightmare was about you leaving."

Sherlock pulls back his hand from John's wrist as if stung. He is no longer looking at John but at the rug and the expression on his face in inscrutable. His tongue darts out to wet his lips. He is on the cusp of saying something. His face contorts with the effort until he gives up and walks back to the window. He tucks his violin underneath his chin and plays more beautifully than ever before.

"I'm not leaving," he whispers, "I have nowhere else to be."

John falls asleep to the violin and sleeps better than he remembers sleeping since the war. When he wakes up alone in his Camden apartment, the sound of the violin is still ringing in his ear. He thinks he's being sentimental or else that he's gone crazy from the dreams but he can hear the familiar tune even after waking up. It takes him a moment to realize that it's coming from through the window, from the street.

"Sherlock," he whispers to himself. No one else could play the violin like that. Not that Sherlock played professionally but he played with a certain nimbleness and precision that no one else could manage. He feels his heart swell with hope as he walks to the window and looks out at the busy street beneath his window. One of the curses of living in Camden, because of the bars and restaurants lining the other side of the street, is that the neighborhood is never abandoned even though it is past midnight.

He scans the street for the source of the music, for the man in the long black coat. Some teenagers are walking out of a bar, a middle aged lady is putting her cat out, a young couple is walking hand in hand toward the main road…and there on the corner is the man with the violin. John realized with a sinking of his stomach that it is not Sherlock and cannot be Sherlock. The wielder of the violin that had eased John in his sleep is not Sherlock but a small, short man with a long grey beard. He is wearing ratty clothes and is hunched over and is so old that John wonders how he holds the violin. He has to know the name of the violin piece.

He pulls on some slippers and races down the stairs in an overcoat. He walks into the chilly London night in time to see the young couple drop a few coins in the street performer's hat. He stands transfixed for a moment, watching the crooked old man playing the violin and then closes the door behind him and races towards the man at the end of the block.

"Excuse me?" John calls out as he runs towards the man, "Sir? Could you please—"

But the old man, noticing John for the first time, starts in surprise, his leathery face scrunching up as he drops the violin which breaks neatly in half. John hesitates for a moment, sorry to have caused the accident.

"I'm so sorry," he starts, "allow me to pay—"

But the man has collected his change and his broken violin and is running in the opposite direction.

"Oi! Mate. I mean no harm," John chases after him, "I just want to know the name—"

But when he turns the corner, there is no sign of the old man or his violin. He is alone again.

OoOoOoO

The next day he stands before his wall of evidence, trying to make the voice in his head go away.

_"Let's assume for a moment that you haven't wildly misplaced your trust in me," _imaginary Sherlock taunts.

"Yes," John agrees, staring at the chalked up wall of his living room, "let's."

_"Let's assume that I'm not a fake."_

"Right. Because you're not."

"_Okay. Now what?"_

"Well, if you're not a fake, why would you say you are?"

_"Sentiment. Self-pity. Heartbreak due to rejection from society."_

"Sarcasm doesn't suit you. You don't know what any of those things feel like."

"_Oh you see right through me."_

"Now the question is…why would you say that? You do everything deliberately. There must be a reason. You didn't care about your public image so that can't be the reason you jumped. Even if it were, why would your last wish be for me to publically discredit you?"

_"As ever you are missing things that are right before your eyes."_

So John looks at everything that is right before his eyes, on the wall. John has written everything that Sherlock said to him on the phone in chalk as best as he could remember. He scans the words carefully.

_The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade…_

_In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you._

_Tell anyone who will listen to you. Anyone who will listen to you._

"Sherlock, was someone listening to our conversation?"

_"Why do people leave notes anyway? It's not like any of it matters when you're dead."_

"Sherlock," John tries to reason with his own imagination, he feels like the epiphany is just out of his grasp. He knows he is reaching for something but he can't see it in the dark. He remembers Sherlock's epiphanies. He remembers the last one he witnessed right outside of Kitty Reilly's apartment. One big lie, wrapped up into Sherlock's life story so it would be believable. He hasn't thought of that conversation, it hasn't seemed important until now.

"_There is only one thing he needs to do end his game…oh." _Sherlock had said and then he'd stopped his train of thought. He had realized something.

"Is this it Sherlock? There is only one thing he needed to do to end his game. Is this what you meant? You knew. That's why you sent me away. He wanted you to jump in order to fully discredit you," John speaks frantically now and draws a line around the headline "suicide of fake genius".

"_And why are suicide notes often so dull? Well, if you're so so sorry about the pain it's going to cause everyone then don't do it. Simple."_

"Sherlock," John tries again, he is breathless with his discovery now, "did you have to say those things because the point of the suicide was to discredit you? Were you saying those things because it was important for whoever was listening to know that you were giving them what they wanted?"

He isn't even talking to imaginary Sherlock now. He is repeating the words out loud to make sure they don't escape him. He has scrubbed the word suicide off the wall with the palms of his hands, they are raw. He writes in its place, in huge capital letters: MURDER.

_"Oh John. There is nothing that cheers me up like a nice murder and such an elegant murder at that."_

__OoOoOoOoOo

John remembers that they could make each other laugh. He remembers that only he could make Sherlock laugh. They both found humor in the ironies of life. They both snickered at things that should not have been funny.

Unfortunately John's subconscious has a sense of humor of its own.

He dreams that he is standing by a river and Sherlock is standing on a bridge over the river. At Sherlock's feet there are sharp rocks protruding out of the blue-green waters, threatening to snap Sherlock in half if he dares confront them. Sherlock is talking to him on the phone.

"There's nothing you can do to stop me," he says, determined. "I've wanted to do this for ages. I'm bored John. I'm sorry…I know you don't want me to. I can't take it anymore. My mind won't shut up."

John is sobbing into the phone, pleading with Sherlock. "Please. I'll do anything. I'll go out and kill people everyday just so you can fend off the boredom. Don't…just, don't."

"I admit I didn't expect you to be quite so affected John," Sherlock breathes and then shrugs. "I'm sorry. There is nothing to be done. I'm already up here. I might as well jump."

And then he stretches out his arms and swan-dives into the river and John's heart breaks for the hundredth time. He screams out in anguish as he watches Sherlock fall but…then Sherlock snaps back up and soon he is bouncing like a yoyo between the bridge and the sharp rocks. Sherlock is bungee jumping.

John has misunderstood his own dream. He is not watching Sherlock die, he is watching Sherlock bungee jump.

He hears Sherlock's delighted gasps on the phone. "Oh fan-tastic J-ohn. Oh! This is truly marvelous. Not boring."

Sherlock doesn't let go of the phone as he spins in the air but provides John with commentary of his adventure. He's as graceful as a gymnast in the air. And John merely sits on the river bank and laughs and laughs at his own dreams and how cruel they are to him. His subconscious actually made a joke! How quaint!

He is still laughing when he wakes up. Before he can stop himself, he makes a mental note to tell Sherlock about the dream in the morning. He realizes he'll never make Sherlock laugh again. He's not laughing anymore.

OoOoOoOoO

**A/N: Officially done with this fic! It ended up being longer than anticipated. I know I said I'd update on Fridays but I figured I'd roll them out more quickly. **

**I'm editing the other chapters. Your feedback really does help motivate and generate! Please leave a quick word.**


	3. Chapter 2

C**hapter 2 (Part 3/13)**

**His Encounters with the Other Holmes Brother**

A Study in Pink. The victims had been forced to pick a pill at gunpoint. John is sure that Sherlock had been forced to jump, had been forced to discredit himself, but there is not a gun in the world that anyone could point at Sherlock that could make him give in even an inch.

"What did he have on you Sherlock?" John wonders. "What did he have that would make you give in?"

_"What makes you think he had something? Maybe I was just bored."_

"Shut up."

_"You know what isn't boring? Jumping off a building."_

"I said: shut up."

_"Maybe you just can't face the fact that I was bored with you. You can't face the fact that I picked Jim Moriarty over you."_

John pulls at his hair and takes a few calming breaths. Hearing Sherlock had seemed harmless. He would just imagine what Sherlock would say in response to his questions at first, but now the voice has a life of its own, a very ruthless life of its own and John fears that he is going crazy.

OoOoOoOoO

He is good at his job. He doesn't walk through the hospital like a ghost. He doesn't talk to imaginary Sherlock outside of the living room. The part of him that misses Sherlock threatens to swallow him whole and it will swallow him whole if he stops running. He spends all of his time thinking about diagnosis and treatments. He talks to patients and goes out to a pub a few times with his colleagues. Any time he spends alone is dangerous. He might die from the hole in his heart if he stops working.

He knows he can't stop thinking about Sherlock so instead of thinking about having him back, talking to him or laughing with him, he pours himself into the mystery of Sherlock's death. As long as he is working on something, missing Sherlock won't swallow him.

But then he sleeps and the dreams become more frequent still.

In one dream Sherlock turns up at his doorsteps and says it was all a practical joke. John punches him and breaks his noise. Sherlock falls flat on his back, gripping his nose and laughing through the blood that is pouring down his face. John hugs him and laughs too.

OoOoOoO

The pretty nurse he goes on a couple of dates with is named Mary. She is funny and energetic and smart. He can pretend to be normal and almost cheerful when he is with her. Their dates are light and flirty and sweet.

"Mike Stamford told me that they call you Three Continents Watson," she says with a curl of her lips, sipping on her martini.

_"You know Mike?" _he almost asks but then he remembers: she used to work at Bart's, they've mentioned how they both know Stamford and he needs to be able to remember these things.

"Did he?" he smiles back. "That's distasteful of him."

"Of course, I said you were a perfect gentleman," she assures him, covering his hand with her own on the table.

"Defending my honor. I can't thank you enough," he flirts back.

"And I also said…that I wish you weren't such a gentleman."

She has dropped the playfulness from her tone. They lock eyes. He looks into her brilliant green eyes and sees the invitation there. He wants to take it but…he needs to explain.

"Look," he says, "I want to."

"But?"

"I'm broken." He hadn't meant to be quite so dramatic but it's the first thing that comes out.

She leans forward, any hint of reservation gone from her face. She squeezes his hand lightly.

"Let me make myself clear," she says, "I like you. I want you. I can see that you're desperately sad and I don't know why. I don't want dates. I don't want you to walk my dog. I don't want you to love me. I just want you tonight."

He nods once. He wants to let her know how grateful he is for this but he can't find the words. He tries the beginning of a few sentences but she waves it away.

She nods back. "It's okay," she says, "you're welcome."

He lets her take him by the hand and lead him to her house. Her flat is simple but chic, full of books and plush sofas and water-color paintings. Her comforter has a million tiny flowers embroidered on it in a glossy delicate blue thread. In the moonlight that pours into her bedroom, they look like cold little stars and John cannot help but muse-as she pushes him down on the bed-that he is being laid to rest in a bed of stars. She straddles him and pulls her dress over her head in one motion. She is pale and soft above him and her eyes are emerald green. He can only think of how beautiful and surreal she looks, shrouded in moonlight, as he devours her lips hungrily. His lips descend to her jawbone and her neck, her breasts, her navel, he is hoping to lose himself in her. He knows that she senses his desperation because she cradles his head against her bare chest as they rock together as if she knows how badly he needs the comfort. He clings to her desperately as they near the edge and she pulls him closer and whispers furtive but sweet things in his ear and then yells his name as she clenches around him and they come together.

She runs her fingers through his hair as he falls asleep and he doesn't dream that night.

OoOoOoOoO

It feels like he's only been sleeping for a few minutes when he feels the sun against his eyelids. He is in that sweet place between being awake and sleeping and he wants to claw his way back into sleep but there is something cold and metallic against his temple. It is truly telling of his time with Sherlock that the first thought that jumps into his mind is: someone has a gun pressed against my skull. A brief pause and a quick look determine that it's just the bedpost. He chuckles at his own paranoia.

When was the last time he had a gun pointed at him? Sherlock.

_"He's my hostage_," Sherlock had said, pointing the gun at him. Sherlock was the only person in the world who could fix a gun to John's head affectionately. When you're prepared to die for someone, when they own your life,when \you would trust them with anything and you know that they know this, having a gun fixed to your head is…endearing.

"Before that," John wills himself to think. When was the last time John had seriously felt a gun against his head? When was the last time he faced danger?

Belgravia: _shoot Dr. Watson on three_. The Americans had been prepared to shoot him. Sherlock had given in. They'd picked the right sore spot. Sherlock's brain had solved the puzzle and found the code to the safe before they put a bullet in his head.

"Before that," he thinks again. At the pool, he has explosives strapped to him and guns pointed at him. Sherlock hands over the missile defense programs without question. Moriarty doesn't need them but Sherlock thinks he might and he gives them over without question. He tries to save John.

And then he remembers the CIA agent being dropped out of the window for hurting Mrs. Hudson.

And suddenly, just like that…He knows.

He bolts to a sitting position and wonders if this is what Sherlock's epiphanies feel like. He looks around. Mary is still sleeping, her brownish-blonde hair is golden in the morning sun, her back is smooth and freckled. She doesn't wake up with his sudden movement. The little star-flowers on the bed look warm and friendly in the daylight. He had almost expected fireworks to go off at this discovery but everything remains quite ordinary and cheerful.

The only thing that had made Sherlock give in to threats in the past was...John.

The memories play in a reel in his mind.

"_She's dying you…machine!"_

His own words make him sick. His mind is reeling. A hundred memories are rushing through his mind and, miraculously, his mind is connecting them all together effortlessly. _Is this what it feels like to be you, Sherlock? Wow, it's maddening._

_"Machine."_

How could he have made that mistake? It was the mistake that Sherlock so desperately wanted everyone to make, to think that he had no heart.

"_I've been reliably informed that I don't have one," _Sherlock has said of his own heart.

_"Now we both know that's not quite true," _Moriarty had countered.

Had Moriarty really seen Sherlock's heart before he had? That made him sick too.

_"I'll burn you. I'll burn the heart out of you."_

Did that mean…did that mean…oh, Jesus.

John is transported into his memories and he watches as they all come together around him. It's all there. It should have been so obvious to him.

_"All he needs to do to end his game is…oh."_ Sherlock had said in front of Kitty's house. _"There is something that I need to do."_

_"I'll help you._" He had offered himself readily.

"_No. Alone."_

"Oh Sherlock," John whispers as he runs a hand through his hair. He feels his heart expand in his chest. That moment in front of Kitty's house had been the moment Sherlock had realized Moriarty's plan. The moment he'd decided to…

_"Alone protects me."_

_"Friends protect people."_

John had realized from the moment he'd seen Mrs. Hudson alive and well at 221B that Sherlock had hurt him and sent him away on purpose. But it's only now, after realizing _why _Sherlock had taken the fall that John thoroughly hates himself for uttering those words.

"_Friends protect people."_

_"Oh do they John?" _Is what Sherlock _should_ have said in response to that. "_Why don't you write some poetry about that while I go jump off a bloody building for you? Ta mate."_

And, of course, Sherlock being a hundred times the man that he was…

"_You were the best man and the most human…human being… that I've ever known."_

And, of course, Sherlock being a hundred times the man that he was had never needed to assert that "friends protect people" and had never needed to declare that he was making the sacrifice. He could have asked John to stay with him but had instead hurt John, turned him away, hoping to save John the pain, condemning himself to face this last choice alone even if it meant facing John's anger and disappointment. Or perhaps he just knew that John would have jumped with him.

"_She's just my landlady."_

He'd known that would push John away.

_"I can't come down so we'll just have to do it like this," _Sherlock had said on the phone.

Not "won't come down" or "don't want to come down" but "_can't _come down".

"_Good-bye John."_

And then the fall. John doesn't cry but his eyes are wet.

He's solved the mystery of the great detective's death and the answer is as simple as this: he had a heart.

OoOoOoOoOo

John takes a quick shower and pulls on his clothes. He makes Mary toast, eggs and coffee and brings it to her in bed. She's pleasantly surprised and stretches out naked on the bed of blue flowers as she eats her toast.

"I told you I don't expect this nonsense."

But he can tell that she's pleased. He watches her sip her coffee.

"Hey," he says softly, "thank you. I really mean it."

She grins at him and nods, knowing and confident. She knows what he means, she knows that it wasn't just the sex, that he is grateful that she could let him hurt without trying to fix him. She knows that she's surprised him with how well she can care for him and yet not treat him like he is broken.

And John knows that in another life… if his heart wasn't broken, if he hadn't given his soul to Sherlock he could have easily fallen madly in love with Mary Morstan. As it is, in this life, he watches the beautiful woman with the brilliant emerald eyes twirl a stray thread of bed cloth with her toe and sip her coffee in bed with a wistful smile. Then he walks out the door and runs down the stairs and all he can think is _Sherlock._

_Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock. You must have known it would be easier for me to die for you than to watch you die._

"Was it just me he was threatening to kill?" he mutters to himself absentmindedly as he walks into the cool London morning, "or was there also a threat against Mrs. Hudson? Maybe even Lestrade and Molly. What about Mycroft?"

"Are you joking? Mycroft has the entire secret service protecting him."

His heart nearly stops in his chest. He can swear that he just heard Sherlock-not the imaginary one but _real _Sherlock- answer his question. He turns around, half-expecting the man to appear in his long coat and his blue scarf and go "surprise!" or maybe "yes, _obviously _I didn't die John. Oh god wasn't it obvious to you? What must it be like to not be me?"

But when he turns around, there is no Sherlock. The only people on the street are two teenage girls in school uniforms, both pretty brunettes, both of them smiling, laughing, on their way to school. They chatter loudly about a new movie. There is also an old homeless woman with brilliant red hair and drooping eyes, half-napping on the street corner.

"Did you hear something?" John asks the woman frantically.

"What sort of something dearie?" she asks drawls cheerfully, barely waking up.

"A man's voice…" John stammers. "Did you hear a man speak?"

"Nope. Did you?" she inquires, looking genuinely curious.

"Oh you're useless," he mutters to himself.

"That's not very nice young lad."

"Sorry, sorry," he mumbles and drops a note in her tin for her troubles. He takes out his phone and steadies himself against the brick wall of Mary's building. He dials the number and braces himself for the voice at the end of the line and tries to think of the best way to explain his conclusions.

"Yes," Mycroft says in lieu of "hello" or "how-do". "The answer to your question is yes. He did it to save you."

John lets out a breath and counts to five. He knows better than to ask how Mycroft knows why he's calling.

"You knew," John says. It's not a question.

"My dear Dr. Watson," Mycroft says and his voice is very nearly sad. "I'm a Holmes."

"Yes, yes of course," John concedes. Of course Mycroft knew.

"John," Mycroft breaths and there is a tinge of anger to his voice, "I always said that you would either be the making of my brother or you would make him worse than ever."

His breath hitches in his throat and for the first time that he has known Sherlock and Mycroft, he realizes that they are _brothers. _That despite Mycroft's betrayal he has lost his brother and it is John's fault. He realizes that calling Mycroft to tell him that his brother had sacrificed his life for him was not a thing that people did in the _real world._

And just when John thinks Mycroft is about to point out that John has destroyed Sherlock, he says something else entirely.

"I was right," Mycroft says, "you were the making of him and you made him everything that he could be, including a human. You came through for him in every way that I failed. Thank you."

"Mycroft I'm—"

"Don't John. We both know you would have taken a bullet for him. You would have taken a bullet before giving Moriarty a single word on his life. I'm the one who is terribly sorry."

John has to grip the wall to stop from falling to the ground now. The tears threaten to spill but he won't let them. He's cried more in the past four months than he has since he was ten.

"Just so you know," John struggles to keep his voice steady. "I don't think he should have done it. I don't think I'm worth half…" he can't continue.

"I have learned in dealing with my brother's stubbornness over the years," Mycroft says smoothly, "that those are decisions he will make for himself. I think he has made his opinion of your _worth_ quite clear, don't you think?"

And with that he is undone, he muffles his sob against his arm and tries to wipe away the stray tears. School children and young professionals are starting to crowd the streets and he cannot cry in front of _all _of London. He wipes his face hastily as two businessmen walk past him. One of the two men, a tall blond, bumps into him. He excuses himself and keeps walking. John is amazed that life can go on as normal, as if nothing has happened. The redheaded homeless woman is still on the sidewalk, humming cheerfully, oblivious.

"Mycroft," he starts. It is worth a try. "Mycroft, you don't suppose that he…well, could he possibly still be…"

Mycroft's laugh is painful to hear. "Don't you think I would have checked?" he says bitterly. John is sorry that he asked.

"Of course you did. I'm sorry," he says hastily, "not even _he _could have faked _that._" And then he hangs up the phone and stuffs it in his pocket.

"Not even he could have faked _that_."

"Oh cheer up lad," the homeless woman hums, "anything is possible."

He hears her hum to herself like a madwoman as he walks away from Mary and back to Camden.

OoOoOoO

He mourns Sherlock all over again and this time without rage and anger acting as buffers. At least before this he could latch on to the thought that Sherlock's death didn't make sense and he could be angry at Sherlock for leaving him.

It is pure agony. He takes more shifts at the hospital until they send him home, fearing that he might collapse of exhaustion. When he allows himself to think of Sherlock, all he can do is wish that Sherlock had not jumped. He wishes he could trade his life for Sherlock's.

He tries to be alive. Not just go through the motions but really live. He knows his life can never be as full and happy as it was at Baker Street but he will not allow it to be as hollow as it was after the war either. That would be like erasing Sherlock from his existence and he can't do that.

He works hard and he knows that his colleagues can't see that he has broken a little bit more inside because he hides it with a smile and sarcastic little jokes and a friendly demeanor.

Mary sees though. She sees with her brilliant green eyes that seem to see right through him. Something in him must be different because a few days after their night together she rests a hand on his arm as she is handing him a patient file.

"John," she says softly, "whatever it is. I'm very sorry."

He blinks back at her and smiles his gratitude. And then, as she's about to brush past him, he stops her gently. "You are a truly extraordinary person, did you know that?" he tells her and he hopes all the sincerity that he feels is evident in his face.

It must be because she looks incredibly touched as she walks away from him.

OoOoOoOoO

And then one day, he wakes up from a peaceful dream, another one of those dreams in which Sherlock played him the violin…he's been having them a few times a week since he discovered Sherlock's sacrifice. And on those nights when Sherlock plays his dream-violin John sleeps soundly. And on this particular day when he wakes up from the violin dream (Sherlock had been playing Mendelssohn's octet and it had been beautiful) his heart is still aching, not with grief but with an impossible amount of affection for his late friend. And John fully grasps for the first time that he owes Sherlock his life in every sense of the word. He peels his body off of the cold sheets and goes to close the window. It's drafty in his apartment. He could have sworn that he closed the window last night.

He stands and watches the street from his window for a few second.

"Look at them Sherlock," he chuckles, "it's all so routine. It's all so boring."

He loves Sherlock. He loves Sherlock so much that his heart might burst with it.

"Sherlock," he sighs, looking at the ceiling, "thank you. Thank you for saving my life. Thank you, even though I wish you were alive."

He can swear that he hears Sherlock murmur "you're welcome" from the doorway but when he turns around there is nothing there. He walks out into the living room. It's empty. He looks over at his wall of evidence once more, it is a mangle of paper and string and chalk.

Sherlock is not there.

"_Oh my John. You seem to have lost your mind and I'm not even there to spike your coffee with drugged sugar. You're going crazy all on your own," _his imaginary Sherlock quips.

"Shut up," he hisses and starts to attack the wall with the palms of his hands. He wipes off the word "MURDER" from the wall and pauses. What word would adequately describe what Sherlock had done? Suicide makes it seem like he'd wanted to die. Murder makes it sound like he had no choice.

He picks up his piece of chalk and at the very center of his web of information, he writes: "LOVE."

OoOoOoOoOoO

He knows something is amiss when he walks into his apartment. Nothing has been moved around but he has the feeling of being watched. He makes his way to the living room cautiously, fully prepared to lunge for the gun he hides under the sofa.

"You needn't bother with your Browning Buck Mark tonight Dr. Watson," drawls the voice, "and you really shouldn't be hiding your hand gun underneath the sofa. It's bad from. You know it is!"

"Mycroft, what are you doing in my living room?" John fumes, barely making out Mycroft's impeccably suited figure in his favorite chair. The older man is nursing a nice glass of scotch-John's scotch-and looking out of the window.

"He was a _nice _baby, would you have guessed that?" Mycroft says. "Very quiet, very thoughtful and entirely-I can't believe I'm saying this-_easy going_. He seemed content just to sit and observe everything. Very bright as you can imagine. Broke IQ records at age three, Mensa went crazy over him. But once he started to talk, he wasn't so nice anymore as you could very well see."

John turns on a small lamp. Mycroft is wearing an expression that would look sad on others but on him it manages to look sour and tired and _annoyed. _His eyes are sunken, his lips set in a straight line. He looks overworked.

"What's going on?"

"His will," Mycroft sighs, "they can't find it."

"Oh Jesus. Just please," John moans, flopping down on the seat opposite Mycroft, "you can't expect me to care. So you're here to complain? What? He hid his will on purpose to deny you his microscope? Or maybe half of _mummy's _estate in Sussex?"

"I am here to talk to you," Mycroft says coldly, "because I can confidently say that he would want you in his will. That is not something I could say of anyone else, myself included. I thought you might be interested to know, _because you cared for him oh-so-much_, that his last will and testament has not yet been found."

John looks at Mycroft Holmes for the first time and sees him for what he is. He's always looked at Mycroft in relation to Sherlock. Sherlock's brother. Sherlock's enemy. Sherlock's _other_ caretaker. Someone who can tell him more about Sherlock. But now, here in the darkness of his living room, he sees the other Holmes brother clearly for the first time as a person who exists independently of Sherlock. He wonders what one must do to steal the title of "The Ice Man" from Sherlock Holmes. It must be lonely to be lonelier than Sherlock. It must be so lonely at the very top.

John believes that Mycroft doesn't care for people or company, he really does. But he seems to actually care about one thing and that is his brother. His dead brother. Oh god. And sure he sold his brother out to a crazy lunatic but what can you expect of a sociopath? Mycroft cares. And John has been a prick about it so far.

"Mycroft," he says in the tone he used to use with Sherlock, the one that is comforting but not pitying. He leans forward, looking at Mycroft's face in the lamplight. It doesn't betray any emotions. "What was the feud about? What were you and Sherlock fighting about?"

Mycroft looks more tired than he has ever seen him. His shoulders slump like he is carrying the weight of everything that has happened to them. "Bugger me if I know," he mutters. John laughs because it's not only the first time he's heard Mycroft curse, it's also the first time he's fallen short of being royalty.

"Sherlock was always the rock star of the family," Mycroft says, chugging the drink, "I suppose it didn't sit too well with him when I decided that instead of railing against the establishment, I was going to join it."

"Or you know, _be _it," John mumbles and Mycroft laughs.

"John, I occupy a—"

"Minor position in the British Government. Yes. Miniscule I'm sure," John says with a smile.

"Yes. Trivial role really." But Mycroft is laughing too.

They sit in silence for a few minutes.

"I think my brother…I think he actually _loved _you," Mycroft says, his face turned away from John. He says this with such reluctance, such a tone of disgust that one would think he was saying it while being forced to eat a cluster of cow manure.

John doesn't say anything.

"I always knew he had that in him, a _heart_," Mycroft continues, sounding both pained and displeased, "I ceased to be lonely with Sherlock in the world. He was, I admit, my likeness. He understood me fully. I always knew I would lose him…I knew he had that potential in him. The potential to _love_."

"As do you," John says softly. Mycroft looks at him with those sunken eyes. He is trying to look furious but John can see that he's hit the nail in the head.

"He was so difficult," Mycroft snorts.

"Very difficult."

"And annoying."

"Yes."

"I was so infuriated by him."

"As was anyone who ever met him."

"The most difficult person I've ever met but…He somehow managed to be loveable," Mycroft says disbelievingly and stares into his drink like he plans on drowning himself in it.

"He did," John agrees. The two men regard each other for a few minutes, taking in the fact that they knew Sherlock as no one else did.

John's throat threatens to close up. He gets up to pour himself a drink. He looks at Mycroft over his shoulder as he pours the scotch into a glass. The older Holmes brother has his eyes fixed on John's wall of evidence and on the word John has etched at the center of the web. Love.

John makes a mental note to scrub it off at the earliest opportunity.

OoOoOoO

"Why do you put up with me?" John asks as he lies in bed with Mary weeks later. They've made a habit of their little visits. She always looks happy after sex and tonight she has a cigarette dangling from the corner of her lips. They're comfortable enough now that she can tell him she likes to smoke in bed.

"What do you mean?" she purrs.

"Why are you so okay with my emotional unavailability? You give me everything I need and don't ask for anything in return. Why?"

"Oh, come off it John. Don't be melodramatic. You're not all bad," she takes a drag from her cigarette, "I get a good shag and I get to spend time with someone whose company I enjoy, which is rare. We live in the 21st century. Women don't want to get hitched to the first man they meet and have kids. I can wait for all of that. For now I have my career to think about and I have you to keep me company when I need it."

John smiles over at her as she puts out her cigarettes and nuzzles against his arm.

"Good," he yawns, "I just wanted to make sure…well, I wanted to make sure…"

"You weren't taking advantage?" Mary grins, "of me? Oh you've just stepped out of an Edwardian novel haven't you? I thought that sort of chivalry died in the 19th century."

They hold each other in a comfortable silence for a few minutes and he thinks that she has finally dozed off when she speaks again.

"John," she says softly, "who is she?"

"W-what? Mary, I'm not seeing—"

"Oh no. I know you're not seeing anyone else. I'm not jealous. I know we're good friends and you would tell me if you were seeing someone," she says.

"What do you mean then?" John asks. She is onto something. By god, she is onto something.

"I know you're in love with someone," she says softly against his chest, "I can see it in your eyes. You look far-off sometimes when you're thinking and then you look hurt and then you look utterly filled…utterly filled with such _love _that I couldn't mistake it for anything else. Whoever it is, you must love them very much. Did she leave you?"

John smiles bitterly. He is so glad that Mary doesn't bother with tabloids or crap telly. She has no idea who Sherlock is. She hasn't read the blog.

"You could say that."

"Well that was a crap move on her part."

"No no. It wasn't like that. He did it to protect me," John reassures her.

A moment of silence. "He?"

"Yes. My best friend."

"And you love him?"

"Yes. Very much," John admits, drawing circles on Mary's back.

"Did you two ever…"

"No," John laughs.

"Why are you laughing?" she huffs. "There's nothing wrong with it if you did. Really John, I never expected you to be—"

"No, no," John says apologetically, "of course there isn't. I'm not laughing because…well, I was laughing because I've been asked that question many times. We were quite attached at the hips. People talk. People do little else. It was just funny that you mentioned it."

"Oh," she smiles against his chest.

More silence.

"John, did you ever _want_ to…you know, be more than friends with him?"

John considers this in silence, baffled that Mary is asking him a question which he never dared ask himself.

"I don't know," he answers honestly, "never until…well, I've been fairly certain about my sexuality my whole life and when we were flatmates I never thought of him that way but now…I miss him. I love him so much that it's hard to tell really."

More silence.

"Have you ever been in love?" John asks.

"Yes. It ended very badly."

"Why?"

"I loved him too much. I had nothing left."

"I'm really sorry Mary. I really am," he draws her closer.

"Don't be," she reassures him, "but I don't talk about it often and I wanted to let you know I trust you enough…What I'm trying to say is that you're a good friend John and I'm glad we met."

He smiles, "we do help each other don't we?"

Mary doesn't say anything but as John is about to fall asleep, she kisses him on the cheek and whispers to him.

"When you love someone so much," she says, "they will come back to you."

John chuckles, "I highly doubt _that._"

"Oh cheer up John. Anything is possible."

Before he can place where he's heard that sentence before, he falls asleep. He sleeps well in Mary's bed but he never dreams of Sherlock's violin there and that makes him just a little sad.

OoOoOoOoO

It's a stormy January evening and John is surprised that the person he craves to see is Mycroft. He would have expected to want to have a pint with Mike Stamford-they still do that on occasion- or lie in bed with Mary for hours, listening to her enumerate the ways in which her patients were crazy and annoying. He expected to want to see Lestrade (who was always great company), he hadn't seen him since the funeral but it had been six months and he was ready. He should have wanted to see Mrs. Hudson or Molly, both of whom would urge his need to be sentimental.

He doesn't need comfort or company or sentiment today. He needs wit and bite and calculations and a little dash of endearing inhumanity.

He needs Mycroft.

The Diogenes club is practically empty. The people who work there recognize him and don't attempt to stop him. He lets himself into Mycroft's office quietly only to find that he isn't there. He sits and waits.

After about an hour, he hears Mycroft enter. John doesn't turn to greet him. He just sits, staring at a point above Mycroft's desk. He hears the older Holmes brother set down his briefcase and walk around the chair.

"I must admit that there is very little in this world that surprises me," Mycroft says evenly, sitting down behind his desk, "but then I must also admit that you've managed to do so. I did not expect your visit Dr. Watson. What brings you here?"

John has to let out a breath. He bites his lip and tries to answer.

"You don't need anything," Mycroft deduces, "not anything that I can see and the only thing that you might want that would not be _obvious _to me at first glance is…oh!" Mycroft realizes. "You're here for…"

"Sentiment," John finishes for him. "Yes Mycroft. I'm here for sentiment. I know you find that _hateful."_

"Why today?" Mycroft wonders, leaning back in his chair.

John is flabbergasted. "It's the fifth of January."

"Yes, I run-I mean I work for the British government," Mycroft chides, "I know the date."

John can't believe this. "Tomorrow is…the sixth is his birthday."

"Birthday?" Mycroft repeats dumbly, as if he's never heard the word, staring out his window at the rolling thunder.

"Yes Mycroft, it's when people are born," John bites sarcastically. "Please don't tell me you and Sherlock were grown in little test-tubes in a lab, because that would confirm everyone's suspicions. Sherlock? Your dead brother? Tall disagreeable chap with the batman coat and the annoying cheekbones. Ring any bells? Tomorrow is…_would be_ is birthday."

Mycroft is looking at him fondly. "Oh I do see why he kept you around. I really do."

John notes that Moriarty had said the same thing to Sherlock once. Maybe he can add this to his resume: "Three certified geniuses have proclaimed that I make an excellent live-in pet."

Mycroft looks bitter and ashamed of himself. He doesn't look at John when he speaks next: "So why have you come here? You think that just because I'm his…because he was my brother, we can have a nice little cry together?"

John is seething but he decides that sarcasm will continue to be his mode of communication.

"Yes Mycroft. I felt sad and I thought: 'hey, Mycroft is a person to go to for emotional support. We can swap our favorite Sherlock stories and then braid each other's hair in front of the telly'," John deadpans. It should feel wrong to joke about Sherlock, except he's sure that Sherlock would thoroughly appreciate this.

Mycroft smiles appreciatively. "Yes you did have that in common didn't you? Your sense of humors."

"Mycroft," he says, not unkindly, "if I wanted tea and hugs and comforting nonsense I would go to anyone else. But it's well known that I enjoy the company of self-absorbed gits, so here I am."

There is something resembling a smile on Mycroft's face. He gets up, pours two glasses of scotch but pauses at the window instead of setting the drinks on the table.

Mycroft hands him the glass of scotch but he doesn't drink his own and so John doesn't either.

"I am smarter than he was," Mycroft admits, "oh no, now don't look like that John. I'm not trying to one-up him. I'm smarter than him. Not that anyone but the two of us would be able to make that distinction. I _am_ smarter but he was far more exceptional than I could ever be because he was so hungry, so restless and far cleverer."

At that Mycroft Holmes raises his glass. "To Sherlock Holmes, my brother, the most exceptional man I have ever known."

John raises his own glass to meet Mycroft's. "To Sherlock," he says, holding Mycroft's gaze. Mycroft isn't being sentimental but this is the most emotion he has ever gotten from the man and he is pleased with it.

"I wanted to discuss something," John admits.

"Yes?"

John has to take a deep breath and steel himself. "When Irene Adler was killed, I asked you if she could have faked her own death."

"Yes."

"And you said that you had been thorough and that 'only Sherlock Holmes could fool you'—"

"John," Mycroft says this calmly but there is an edge of warning there.

"I'm just _saying _Mycroft—"

"Yes I can see that. Now stop saying," Mycroft snaps, "not that it was impossible to do. Of course I can see how he could have faked it."

"What?" John's pulse quickens, he feels the color drain from his face, "so it is—it was possible?"

"It's fairly obvious that he could have done it. There are four different ways that he could have successfully faked his own death in those circumstances," Mycroft says calmly, "each of which would demand time and preparation, neither of which he had. Moriarty shot himself, which suggests that Sherlock's original plan was to force him to call off the snipers. Moriarty seems to have countered that attempt by removing himself from the game and forcing Sherlock to take the jump. Nevertheless it would have been possible, but not probable, that Sherlock could have foreseen Moriarty's next move and prepared to fake his own death regardless. Given that he didn't have much time, there are two ways he could have done it. Again, possible but not probable."

John's heart is beating against his ribcage. There is just a glimmer of hope but it's still there.

"And?" John urges on.

"I would think it's fairly obvious why I don't t hink that this was the case," Mycroft sighs.

John feels sick. "Yeah I know. The fact that I saw him-I saw his…fuck, his dead body."

"Oh no," Mycroft says, "that could have been faked."

"What then?"

"Think John think!" Mycroft urges. For a moment, he sounds so like his younger brother that John wants to cry.

"I would have seen him by now if he were still alive," Mycroft explains.

"Well I doubt he would just walk around Picadilly Circus the next day—"

"Not _physically _John. I would have seen his footprints. I know how he thinks. Why would he not reveal himself after the snipers were called off? Because the snipers would have to be killed before he could reveal himself, Moriarty's network would need to be pulled apart before he could reappear safely. Sherlock would set about making this happen immediately but as far as we can tell, there has been no movement within the network so far. No movement at all."

John is boneless and exhausted on the chair across from Mycroft.

"But you said when Irene Adler died that Sherlock _could _have done it. He _could_ have helped Irene fake her own death, so he _could_—"

"Irene Adler is dead. As is my brother."

They sit in silence.

"John," Mycroft says softly, "I don't mean this unkindly. I cared for Sherlock and find that he had innumerable great qualities but he also had an exceptional talent for destroying anyone and anything that ever got close to him. Don't imagine that the grasp of his destruction is impeded by death. Do stop thinking of him, will you? It will be the end of you if you don't."

"_Finally something we can agree on,"_ John muses to himself as he stands to leave. He is turning the door knob when Mycroft calls his name again.

"John," he says in a voice that is so gentle, it cannot belong to Mycroft, "will you do one last thing for him? I know he would want this."

"Anything," John breathes, suddenly filled with promise. Is there something Sherlock wanted him to do? One last task to complete? Did Sherlock leave him the task of tracking down the gunmen? "You must know I'd do anything."

"Don't pursue this. Let it go. Please."

How inconvenient. That is the one thing can't do. He turns and leaves.

OoOoOoO

After his encounter with Mycroft, John picks up the birthday present he has ordered for Sherlock. He knows it's silly but he does it anyway. He has to celebrate Sherlock's birthday and he's doing it all by himself.

Then he walks all around London with the small package in his pocket. He is so thoroughly beaten by his meeting with Mycroft that being in the flat by himself runs a high risk of a mental breakdown. He walks and walks through the cold January evening, wrapping his coat around himself tightly, hoping to exhaust himself.

"You need to mourn Sherlock and move on," a voice inside his head instructs.

"I _have_ mourned him! What has all the crying been about then?"

"You've mourned but you haven't given up hope. You need to let go."

"No. Not yet."

"Suit yourself dear," says the voice, "your funeral."

After Afghanistan, he had felt nothing. This is different. He aches all the time, he hopes all the time, he is charged all the time. He is distracted _sometimes _but he _wants _all the time. He wants him back.

OoOoOoO

Once he has walked practically all of London, he arrives back at his flat exhausted. Never before has he been aware of how cold his new flat is. The surfaces are bare except for a vase and a few books. The furniture is all wood and nondescript cream and gray. The rest is all granite and metal and clean and sleek and not messy and not…._Sherlock._

He stumbles towards his bed as he shrugs off his coat and collapses on the cool, white surface without any intention of changing out of his clothes. He needs sleep. What he finds, however, is that he has landed on something, something that crumples under the weight of his chest. He scoots away and pats the bed with the palm of his hand: an envelope. He cracks an eye open and looks at the offending item in his hand. He sits up and rips it apart. Smooth, filmy pieces of paper escape the ripped envelope and slide onto the bed, illuminated by moonlight.

It is her. It's unmistakably her. She has a different hairstyle and she is wearing far too many clothes but he would recognize that face anywhere. It's _the woman._ It's Irene Adler.

There is a picture of her at a restaurant with a young girl. They are smiling at each other over plates of pasta. She has an innocent looking bob and is wearing a chunky sweater. Another picture of her leaving an apartment building. The next is her kissing the girl in a park. The pictures are dated. They were taken a week ago.

John stares at the pictures, stunned. His blood seems to have turned into ice. This is important. He knows that he is probably holding one of the most important things to ever happen to him. His ears are ringing, his head is pounding. His tired brain does not even care to explain to him the obvious images before him. But he knows they are important. He has to calm down, he needs to not hyperventilate and he needs to make sense of everything. Before he can stuff the pictures away in the night stand or rip them to shreds, he spots a small typed up note resting between two of the photographs.

He looks at the small typed notes on the piece of paper. The message is simple: "She is alive and well in Manhattan. Conning a young American socialite from the looks of it."

Irene Adler is not dead. She is not dead. She faked her own death.

Why is this important? Why is this important?

"_It would take Sherlock Holmes to fool me_," Mycroft had said over a year ago.

And then earlier this evening John had brought it up, had hoped…

_"But you said when Irene Adler died that Sherlock could have done it. He could have helped Irene fake her own death, so he could—" _

_"Irene Adler is dead. As is my brother."_

But Irene Adler isn't dead. "_It would take Sherlock Holmes to fool me."_

Sherlock had helped Irene fake her own death. Surely he could do it again? The sender of these pictures is trying to hint that Sherlock can in fact fake a death like no other. And the sender of these pictures knows Irene's secret and listened to his conversation with Mycroft tonight. This narrows down the field considerably.

The pictures aren't from Mycroft. He thinks Irene is dead.

This can't be Moriarty because…well, he's dead and even if he isn't, why would he send these to John?

Which leaves…

John pauses, realizing the significance of the moment. He is standing at the juncture between two paths, this much is clear. Both paths are equally horrifying and unpleasant.

On the one hand he can accept that Sherlock is dead and move on with his life. He saw Sherlock fall from the building, he saw his blood pool on the sidewalk, he saw his lifeless body. What more proof does he need? He should accept it and put it behind him.

On the other hand there have been all these irregularities, all these hints. He can choose to pursue the thought that Sherlock is alive. He can go down that road and investigate this further. After all, someone has sent him these photos for a reason and some of Sherlock's actions had clearly suggested…

"But if you choose to investigate the possibility that Sherlock is alive," a voice inside his head tells him, "and you pursue it for months and years and you find out once and for all that he is _in fact_ dead, it will be the end of you. You won't be able to recover from that. You think you're devastated now? That disappointment will drive you crazy. It will eat you alive. You will die. You will be nothing. Is it worth it?"

Is the slight possibility that he might find Sherlock alive worth the probability that he will die trying? He has been ready to give his life for Sherlock on multiple occasions and if Sherlock is out there somewhere, in need of assistance…

There had never been a question of it. He is prepared to risk his life, his sanity.

Plus, there is the issue of the photographs. Who else could have sent them? Who else would listen to his conversation with Mycroft and send along the fact that Irene is alive as a hint? Not Mycroft, not Irene, not Moriarty.

It's like what Sherlock was always going on about…when you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable must be the truth.

Sherlock sent him the photographs. Sherlock is alive.

John curls around the filmy sheets of paper on the bed and falls asleep clutching the note.

OoOoOoOoO

**A/N: There are so many twists and turns to come! And we _might _even get some Johnlock in the next chapter. I'm in the process of editing the rest of the story.****  
**

**I would love some feedback before we move forward (the next couple of chapters are crucial to the story) so the next update will be slightly review dependent. Just a quick word is appreciated, as is constructive criticism. And even if you don't have time to review, thank you so much for reading.**


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3 (Part 4/13)**

**Of Birthdays and Longing**

The next morning he showers and dresses hastily and makes his way to the cemetery with the package still resting in his coat pocket. It starts to snow as he makes his way through the cemetery.

"Yes well it would snow on your birthday wouldn't it?" John mutters to Sherlock's grave as he takes out the package from his pocket.

"Look, I know this is silly," he says, resting the brown paper package by the grave, "what with the ninety-eight percent chance that you're dead and all. And, you know, giving presents to the dead is not exactly sane but…I saw this at a bookstore once and it reminded me of you. It's a book by Dr. Joseph Bell and this nutcase was sort of like you. He wouldn't take patient histories. He explained to his students that he could tell the patient worked at the linoleum factory in Burntisland from the dermatitis on the finger of her right hand and the red clay on the sole of her shoes, which could only be found in the Botanic Gardens. Crazy. Just like you."

He stands quietly for a few minutes, surrounded by complete silence.

"Jesus, this is your _thirty fifth _birthday," John mutters, running a hand through his hair, "you were so _young. _You do realize that you were worth so much more to the world…you should have let me die."

John takes a deep breath to steady himself. "And if you're alive, I will find you and I will beat you up for not taking me with you."

And then he turns around on his heel and walks away. He walks around the cemetery for hours, looking at gravestones, wondering who these people were, if they are missed, who they have left behind…

He walks to the older parts of the cemetery where gravestones are elaborate and he looks at the graves that are entirely too small to bear. He wonders which one of these were disease and which ones were murder. "We were in the business of death the both of us, weren't we Sherlock?" he muses.

And just as he is about to turn and leave, he sees a purple figure dotting the gray and white landscape. He squints a little. Not sure whether or not to believe his own eyes.

"Mrs. Hudson?" he cries in surprise.

"John, dear!" she gasps, "I'm right freezing! What are you doing without gloves? Dear, dear. You'll catch your death—um, I mean you'll catch a cold love. You face is all red and your hands are cold."

"What are you doing?" he says softly, eyeing the bouquet of flowers in her arms suspiciously as she hugs him and pats his face.

"Don't be silly. You didn't think I would forget did you?"

Together they walked towards Sherlock's grave without addressing where they are going. John is grateful that Mrs. Hudson goes on and on about Mrs. Turner and her new beau and doesn't require John to speak about how he is doing.

When they arrive at their destination however, Mrs. Hudson's narrative stops in its tracks. Around Sherlock's gravestone there are at least half a dozen bouquets and a few stray single roses. More importantly there are little buttons and ribbons strewn around with things like "We love you Sherlock" and "I believe in Sherlock Holmes" written on them.

"Oh my god," John whispers softly, "how did people even know that today—"

"Your blog I imagine," a familiar voice says from behind them, "I might have also made a facebook page."

John turns around. It'll Molly Hooper, she is beaming but her eyes are sad. She is wrapped up in wool and looks smaller than ever in her large coat.

"Molly," he says softly.

"It's no big deal really," she shrugs, putting down her own bouquet next to the others, "there are loads of people out there who believe the truth. I just made a little group informing everyone of his birthday. The rest was all self-motivated."

John looks at the flowers and buttons again. At least two dozen people have come by in the time he has taken to walk around the cemetery. Not much but still…two dozen people believe him, believe Sherlock, enough to come all the way here

"John!"

"Greg," he smiles, genuinely glad to see the man, "how have you been?"

"You know…well," Lestrade says with a smile, patting John on the arm. "It's good to see you mate."

"Yes. Good to see you too. It really is."

For a moment they stand, just the four of them, staring at Sherlock's grave. The detective inspector, the morgue attendant, the ex-army doctor and the London landlady united around this bizarre man. They stand in absolute peace, lost in their own thoughts. And then out of the corner of his eye, John spots some movement and turns to see two more people approaching, next thing he knows he has lunged for their throats and is being held back by Lestrade and Molly.

"How dare you," he gasps, trying to free himself from Molly and Lestrade and lunge at Sally and Anderson. The pair looks appropriately sheepish.

"Calm down John," Lestrade urges, "let me explain."

"There. Is. Nothing. To. Explain." John has one arm free and is _almost _close enough to punch Anderson in the face. Almost.

"Look John," Sally tries to reason, holding her palms up in surrender, "we were in charge of the review of the cases he was involved in—"

John stops struggling and Molly and Lestrade slacken their hold on him.

"Oh yeah?" John sneers, "and had he stolen the Reichenbach painting a hundred years ago so he could find it singlehandedly?"

"No," Anderson admits, looking at his toes instead of John.

"And what about the Ambassador? Any chance Sherlock kidnapped him and then saved him?"

"Well…no."

"In fact," John says calmly, with an edge of malice waiting to spring forward, "was there anything suspect…anything at all to implicate Sherlock in any of the cases he solved for Scotland Yard except a screaming little girl?"

"Um, no," Sally admits, "which is why we're here—"

"I swear I'm going to—" John has started for Donovan and Anderson again, only to be held back once more by Lestrade.

"John dear, please stop it," Mrs. Hudson fusses in the background. Feeling like he is being scolded by his mother, John stops his attempted murder of the two idiots and straightens his jacket.

"We're here to pay our respects. We wanted to tell you," Sally starts to explain, "that…um…"

"Let's make it clear. We never liked him. We still think he was an arrogant psychopath."

"I swear to god, I will punch your teeth out if you keep bumbling Anderson," John says with a pleasant smile.

"John, we led the investigation ourselves and it's well known that we didn't get along with him. We're going to clear his name in a press-conference tomorrow," Sally explains calmly, "and people will believe it because we were the same people who discredited him."

"Wow this is great," John says darkly, "your announcement is sure to resurrect him."

"John, it's something," Lesatrade says softly. "At least people will know the truth."

"Yes, well, there is that," John nods in agreement, looking at the gravestone once more. "The truth. Who even knows what that is?"

And so they stand once more in silence, staring at the headstone that simply reads "Sherlock Holmes". Up ahead on the road, next to the cemetery John sees a black car with tinted windows pull up and stop.

"Mycroft," he whispers and raises his hand in a half-wave towards the back window even though he can't see the man inside. As if offended by the acknowledgement, the engine revs ups again and the black car disappears as quickly as it has appeared.

He feels a hand on his elbow. He turns around. It's Molly and she looks just as sad as he feels. For a moment it seems like she is about to say something but then she doesn't and she lets her hand drop from his arm.

He looks back at the presents beside the grave. The brown package he's put there earlier is gone and he can swear that he saw it just moments ago buried underneath the flowers. It's still there, of course. It's probably just covered by the snow.

OoOoOoO

John remembers Sherlock's birthday last year. They had finished a case that morning (triple homicide, the killer had poisoned former lovers with gold) and Sherlock was in excellent spirit. John had tried to make a big deal out of the day. Sherlock had refused to celebrate properly but had wolfed down the birthday cake and the Indian takeaway that John had ordered, in his post-case euphoria.

"Wow," John had exclaimed upon returning from the kitchen with wine and seeing Sherlock's plate clear of food, "I was gone for two minutes."

"You would eat quickly too if your mind had been on full speed for four days straight…well, probably not. Your full speed is quite glacial isn't it? " Sherlock exclaimed smugly, stretching out his long limbs. "Gold John! It was brilliant. No one thought to check for it. Gold!"

"Yes, yes," John nodded along, handing him the glass of wine and his birthday present , "to you Sherlock and your genius. Happy birthday."

"Birthdays," Sherlock muttered absently, sipping his wine, "congratulations! You lived another year. Well done…What is this?"

Sherlock had looked at the blue, wrapped package as if it offended him.

"Your birthday present," John had explained calmly. "You know, that thing that your friends give you on your birthday? A present?"

Sherlock had gone completely still, holding the present as if it might explode at any second. "I've never had one of these before."

"You've never had a birthday present?" John had laughed disbelievingly.

"No," Sherlock had said softly, looking at John tenderly, a little too tenderly.

John had coughed to dissipate the awkward moment. "Well, first time for everything. Go on. Open it. You're a hard man to buy a present for but I hope you'll like it."

Sherlock had remained completely still, holding the blue package in his hand, weighing it a little with each hand. "_The Complete Encyclopedia of Rare Plants,_" Sherlock had announced softly without opening the present. "You saw me admiring it in the rare books section…during the Hamilton robbery case. Oh John," he had grinned maniacally, "this is…truly, truly excellent. How did you…? Thank you."

Personally John did not understand the hunger with which Sherlock had started to devour the Encyclopedia with but there is was, his friend was happy. That was enough. John cleared away the food as Sherlock made announcements like "John don't you think that criminals should pick up on using Moonseeds and Chokecherries? That would be a clever murder" or "John I'd like to conduct some experiments with blood flowers some day. Where can we find some?"

By the time John had washed the dishes, Sherlock was at his violin.

Sherlock played Bach and John stretched out on the floor before the fireplace, warming his feet and tapping his fingers along to the music.

"That was beautiful," John murmured as Sherlock finished the piece.

"You like Bach then?" Sherlock had said, putting his violin away.

"Hmmm. Not particularly. I just like it when you play."

Sherlock had appeared suddenly, standing above him, looking personally offended. "You don't like Bach? Who do you like then?"

"I like that Swan Lake fellow that you play sometimes—"

"Tchaikovsky?" Sherlock had sneered disbelievingly, flopping down to sit next to where John was stretched out.

"Yeah. And Mozart."

"Hmmm," Sherlock had said disapprovingly.

"Sherlock. Stop disapproving of my music preferences."

"What? I didn't say anything."

"But you were thinking it," John had laughed, "I dunno. I like The Beatles."

"Who?" Sherlock had asked, lying down next to him.

"Never mind Sherlock," John had said affectionately, wondering when Sherlock had deleted The Beatles form his hard drive. John stretched a little and looked over at the man next to him. His eyes weren't quite so pale in the firelight. His pupils were smaller, his iris a very distinctive gray. The light was hitting him in a way that accentuated his prominent cheekbones and the tip of his collarbone which was peeking out of his crisp white shirt. One wild curl rested abandoned on his forehead. John wondered if it would be inappropriate to reach over and smooth it away.

"Hey John."

"Hmmm?"

"Please, please me," Sherlock whispered earnestly.

"What?" John yelped.

"I want to hold your hand," Sherlock said with puppy-dog eyes, grabbing hold of John's hand and squeezing it. "Love me. Do," Sherlock pleaded in a saccharine voice.

John burst out laughing. Not just giggling, laughing really hard. When he looked over, Sherlock was laughing too. Sherlock didn't look like himself when he laughed, his eyes would scrunch up, his lips stretched wide. Abandon. There was nothing controlled about his laugh. John loved to watch it. By the time they stopped laughing, John's stomach hurt and he had tears at the corners of his eyes.

"Oh please John," Sherlock grumbled in his normal voice, "did you really think I don't know who _The Beatles_ are? Really."

"Well if you think the music of a broken up band from the sixties is more important than the solar system…"

"Let it go John," Sherlock said affectionately. John noticed that despite the fact that the joke was over, they were still holding hands.

"Thank you John. I rather liked my birthday this year."

"You're welcome." John yawned into the carpet, drifting into sleep in front of the glowing embers of the fireplace. He gave Sherlock's hand another squeeze. He really didn't want to be anywhere else in the world in that moment. Just as he was drifting into sleep—

"Wait, John…The Beatles broke up? Why?"

OoOoOoO

On John's birthday Sherlock had not bought a cake or a present. In fact, John had known that his birthday would not be remembered, especially since they were fast on the track of two young Americans who were trying to flee London with a precious diamond after having murdered its owner.

Sherlock had narrowed down their hiding place to two places in London. They had split up in the interest of time. John went to the warehouse near the harbor and Sherlock set out for the basement of O'Brien's Tavern. Between the two of them, they would find the culprits.

And it was thus that on his birthday John Watson had found himself ambushed with chloroform in a warehouse, gagged, restrained and bound by his hands to the ceiling.

"Did you actually think you could outsmart us?" said the young girl.

"I think he did," her partner in crime had said, "and too bad for you, we paid two people to dress like us and make a loud appearance at a restaurant across town. So when we blow your brains out, we'll have a pretty tight alibi. That was the trick don't you see? That's why no one could prove that we killed the old hag and took the diamond. We were seen out that night, dancing. All it took was a couple of excellent actors. Too bad you can't tell anyone our secret.

John remembers pulling on his restraints desperately as the young American placed the barrel of the gun at his temple. He remembers screaming his lungs out through the gag and attempting to kick to no avail.

"Look away Julie, there's no reason for you to see the contents of Dr. Watson's skull," the young man had drawled.

_Fucking damn you Sherlock_, was the last thought that ran through his mind before—

He heard a trigger being cocked. "Yes, Julie," purred a familiar voice, appearing suddenly at their side, "do look away while I put a bullet through your little friend's left ear. Oh I'm going to do it at an angle Mr. Johnson. It won't kill you immediately. It will remain lodged between your skull and your brain for hours. You _will _die. Don't get me wrong. There will be no way to save you from that sort of bullet wound but you will feel the life drain out of your body bit by bit and you will know agony like you've never felt before. You will pray for death and the last thing you see will be my face," Sherlock finished.

_Yes, yes, you show-off. Cut the monologue. Get me out of here, _he had thought to himself snidely but he was smiling through the gag.

"Unless of course," Sherlock continued pleasantly. "You drop the gun presently and release Dr. Watson from those silly little ropes…yes, yes. There we go. Quickly now. Thank you."

John rubbed at his wrists to restore feeling in them and tore off the rag from his mouth.

"Get away from him," Julie cried, charging at Sherlock but John already had his gun pointed at her. His hand was steady.

"Don't move," he warned, his voice gruff, "and please learn to disarm your hostages from now on."

"John," Sherlock had breathed, not taking his eyes off of Johnson, "are you hurt?"

"I'm fine Sherlock," he'd said reassuringly, giving his friend a weak smile. But Sherlock was still busy giving Johnson the death-glare.

"You are exceptionally lucky Johnson. I mean it. This is exceptional luck," Sherlock said amiably, "had you succeeded in killing John you would have been tortured and killed tonight in the most imaginative fashion possible…I should know, my mind is quite remarkable. It does so come up with the most brutal things. As it is, you only get this—" Sherlock used the butt of the gun to knock Johnson out. Julie gave out a cry but didn't move, very aware of John's aim on her.

"Oh and prison," Sherlock added conversationally, grinning at John, "but that seemed fairly obvious."

As Scotland Yard swarmed the warehouse and took away the culprits, John finally succumbed to the pain in his knees and allowed himself to be led out and wrapped in a blanket. After a glass of water and some fresh air, he really did feel much better and he looked around for Sherlock, only to find him being questioned by Lestrade. As if feeling John's stare, Sherlock looked up and smiled at him and then waved a dismissive hand at Lestrade and made his way to John.

"Took you long enough," John said with a grin as Sherlock appeared before him.

He couldn't help but notice that his little snipe drained any remaining color from Sherlock's face. "I was…if I had been a few minutes—"

"Well, you always manage to make it in time," John said reassuringly, smiling. Sherlock smiled back.

"John?"

"Hmmm?"

"Happy birthday," Sherlock chuckled. And then they were both laughing.

"Oi. You two need to stop laughing at crime scenes," Lestrade snapped as he passed by, trying to keep control of his squad and secure the crime scene. He looked thoroughly inconvenienced by their lightheartedness. Of course this made the two of them laugh even harder.

"You know," John said between bursts of laughter, "it seemed like I was screaming through the gag but I was trying to tell him that, in England at least, it's considered rude to shoot the birthday boy."

This renewed their giggling.

"Yes, well," Sherlock cleared his throat, suddenly looking very awkward, and handed him a lovely leather notebook and a silver pen, "I _did _get you these, so you could record things for your blog but in light of recent circumstances—"

"Well, I do admit that it's not as good as your other present…you know, _saving my life_," John smiled, "but wow Sherlock, this is, well. Probably the nicest thing I've ever owned. Thank you."

They had stood in silence for a moment and then…

"Wow Sherlock," John said softly, genuinely surprised and touched, "you _actually _remembered."

Sherlock looked offended. "John, I have the most remarkable memory when it comes to important details. Just because I don't take notice of trivialities—"

"You thought my birthday was important?" John had said softly and then grinned mercilessly: "Sentiment?"

This was worth it because Sherlock had suddenly looked overheated and opened and closed his mouth repeatedly, looking like a gasping fish.

John wasn't about to stop. "Is the great Sherlock Holmes speechless?"

"No!" Sherlock cried, practically running away from him.

"Sherlock looooves birthdays," John sang, throwing off his blanket and chasing after him.

"Do not!"

"Fine. Right. I'm sorry. I was being immature," John conceded and then: "Would you like me to get us friendship bracelets?"

"I'm never doing anything nice for you ever again," Sherlock had groaned, flustered.

John had laughed gleefully.

"Dinner?" Sherlock wondered.

"Starving."

OoOoOoO

In the weeks following his decision to pursue the possibility of Sherlock being alive, John doesn't really do anything differently. Rather, he can't think of anything to do. The realization that Irene is alive, that this might be a clue from Sherlock, has changed his world but he cannot think of a plan of action. He cannot think of a place to start his search. He is stuck.

Usually John spends a few nights at Mary's every week but occasionally, if they eat near the hospital or if either of them has an early shift the next day, Mary comes over to his flat which is closer to the hospital. John wakes up on one such morning and rummages his kitchen for food. Ultimately he finds a half-full carton of frosted flakes in his cabinet. When Mary emerges from his bedroom, wrapped in a white sheet, he groans internally. Of course, wrapped in a white sheet, something to remind him of Sherlock. Thanks Mary.

He shakes the thought from his head and smiles his most charming smile as he holds up the bowl of cereal.

"Breakfast?" he suggests. "I made it just for you."

She laughs and hops up to sit on the kitchen counter, grabbing the bowl from him and digging into the it with great appetite.

"Coffee?" she asks, between mouthfuls of frosted flakes.

"Yeah yeah," he nods, setting about the task before him. Mary kicks her legs playfully and starts to hum a catchy tune as she munches on the cereal. He hands her a cup of coffee and she wraps one leg around him and thanks him with a playful kiss on the cheek.

Suddenly he looks at the image from the outside. It's such a tableau of domestic bliss. He is beaming, Mary is wrapped in a white sheet, humming, coffee in hand, kissing him on the cheek, the flat is filled with the smell of coffee, sun is shining through the windows and his hair is happily tousled.

Time stops as Mary places the kiss on his cheek; or rather it slows down considerably. He considers for a moment what would happen if Sherlock walked through the front door at that very moment. What would he think of the scene before him? Would he see a man who has moved on, who is happy without him? Would his powers of deduction be able to see through this? Would he see the small crease in John's brows? Would he see that John's eyes flicker ever so slightly towards the door, as if expecting him to walk in?

"My my John," says the Sherlock in his head, suddenly appearing in the living room so John can see him over Mary's shoulder. He is scrubbing his nails with his thumb with a careless look on his face, "you're being rather domestic."

"Shut up Sherlock. I'm trying to be alive, thank you."

"Oh, look at that," Sherlock says with a pleasant smile, "what a coincidence! Me too. I'm also trying to stay alive, somewhere in a motel in Turkey. You know, trying to take down a crime organization single-handedly. Hope you're having fun here in your cozy little flat."

"Yeah, well. I would give up everything and go with you but I can't find you, can I? I don't even know if you're alive," John reasons as Mary starts to pull away.

"Must I do everything for you?" Sherlock snorts. And then he disappears and everything goes back to its normal speed.

Mary pulls away and blinks at him, a little concerned. "John? Is everything okay?"

"Everything is just perfect," John assures her. _No, Mary. I think I'm actually going crazy._

"So," she says, "is that violin player on your street every night?"

"What!?" John almost does a spit-take of his coffee.

"The violin," she repeats, "didn't you hear it? It was so beautiful. Almost like a lullaby, it helped me fall asleep. It was playing for a couple of hours."

"I thought I was dreaming," John mumbles to himself, his head reeling. The old street player, he had been playing so many of the pieces that Sherlock used to play and John thought that he had been dreaming it all up but is this another clue from Sherlock?

"No, he plays on this street a lot," Mary says absentmindedly, "I've heard it a bunch of times when I've slept over. Hey, turn on the telly will you?"

"Have you ever seen him?" John wonders, handing her the remote control.

"Yeah yeah. Old leathery guy. Really old. He hangs out on the street corner sometimes, asks everyone for money. He plays quite well," she explains, eyes glued on the telly. "Crazy about the stock market huh?"

"Yeah, crazy," John repeats, his mind far off. Sherlock, what are you trying to say?

OoOoOoOo

John now has something to obsess over. He has to find the violin player, the violin player is his key to finding Sherlock. But the violin stops. John doesn't dream of Sherlock playing the violin anymore. He sets an alarm clock and wakes up at odd hours to look out his window. Nothing. The old man has disappeared completely.

After two weeks of waking up every night to check for the violin player, John reads something interesting in the morning paper.

"Notorious Albanian Assassin Finally Found and Arrested in Slovakia," John reads on the front page. John recognizes him from the pictures Mycroft had shown him, all those months ago…he was one of the men hired to keep an eye on Sherlock.

Now this, John thinks, this is solid proof.

OoOoOoO

John runs into Molly at the hospital one day. She's filling in some shifts at the morgue because of a staff shortage. He invites her out for coffee, genuinely glad to see her again.

She seems more grown up somehow, maybe because she's dressed in black and has a very short haircut. Or maybe because she seems more confident, more put-together. John wonders if Molly has always been witty and confident or whether this is a new development. It's quite possible that being in front of Sherlock had reduced her to awkward and fumbling. She talks about her new flatmate and a new kitten she's adopted to keep her cat, Toby, company while she works long hours. And she tells him a few amusing stories about mistaken identities in the morgue and a woman who really wasn't dead at all. He laughs because it is genuinely funny but also because he's pleasantly surprised with her dark sense of humor and her self-deprecating jabs at her job. He tells her about his new job and how well his interns are doing and he even tells her about Mary, albeit briefly. She seems happy for him and says that she met Mary briefly while she worked at Bart's and that she'd always found Mary to be smart and charming.

"And she's very pretty," Molly adds with a wink.

They chat comfortably for an hour, ignoring the elephant in the room, until John can't contain it anymore. He has to tell someone.

"Look Molly."

His tone seems to convey the topic that he plans on discussing because suddenly she stiffens and looks visibly pained.

"John, please don't," she pleads, "I can't."

"Just listen to me," he whispers urgently, "I know you'll think I'm crazy but I think he's alive and I think he needs my help."

"Oh John," she says and her look is filled with pity, "don't do this."

"Look, I realize that it's crazy—"

"Yes," she says, near tears, "because you _saw _him—"

"But it's Sherlock, he can do things that—"

"But John," she cuts in, her voice trembling, "I saw him. In the morgue. Dead."

"There are ways that he can…" John tried to reason, his throat constricting with the grief, "you know how he is."

"He was a genius John. But no one could be that clever," she reasons, looking distraught.

He doesn't say anything. It's clear that he can't convince her.

"Look," she says kindly, "I have to go but you seem to be doing well…I mean, are you?"

"Am I what?" he whispers, his eyes closed, head leaning against the wall. He has no energy left.

"Are you happy? Are you doing well?" she says hopefully.

"I'm doing everything a person who is doing well would do," he says, not opening his eyes, "but truthfully? No. I'm not fine. I'm not fine at all. And I've never been further from happy."

He regrets snapping at her but there it is. The truth.

He hears her get to her feet. She pauses. She walks around the table and cups his face gently. He cracks an eye open.

"You're not crazy for thinking that he's alive," she whispers calmly, looking him straight in the eyes. For a moment he thinks she is about to agree with him. For a moment he is filled with joy. Molly agrees with him and maybe together, they can find Sherlock. He's not crazy.

But then Molly, gives him a sad smile. "You're not crazy. You're just grieving," she says softly, "do try to be happy. He would have wanted that."

She walks away from him.

"No. No, he bloody well never wanted anyone to be happy," he mumbles to himself, sipping his coffee.

OoOoOoO

"Another International Hitman Arrested."

It's only after John sees the third of these headlines that he starts to imagine where Sherlock might be. These are his fingerprints, he's sure. So he knows that Sherlock has been in Slovakia, Albania and Ukraine so far. Where would he go next?

John's imagination startles him once more. He finds himself thinking about Sherlock's whereabouts for hours at a time. He imagines that Sherlock will lie awake in a terribly empty motel room in Estonia. It will probably be freezing. No it will definitely be freezing and the windows will be covered in frost. Maybe there will be snow outside or maybe everything will be covered in ice. But Sherlock will stretch out on the stiff, dirty bed and tuck his hands behind his head and his breath will mist in the cold air, above his cracked lips—yes his lips will be cracked, he'll be gaunt and dehydrated. He probably will not have had any water for a day or two and no food for even longer than that. Oh, Sherlock, please eat _something. _It will be awfully trite if you die of malnutrition.

He's probably averaging an hour of sleep every day, sometimes going without any sleep for days. He is too concentrated on his task to sleep but more importantly he will not even be able to sleep when he has to. It will be too dangerous. He could be ambushed at any second. So he will probably sneak a half an hour here or there but he will never allow his body to fully relax. He will lie down in his room, freezing in some godforsaken little village in Estonia-or maybe he'll be in a bigger city like Tallinn. John really has no idea how international escapades like this work, but he knows Sherlock will stretch out fully clothed, probably with five nicotine patches decorating his arm…no, he will smoke. Of course, he will smoke. John and Mycroft won't be there to slap him on the wrist. He will be so _alone_. He will need to indulge in _something_. John cannot begrudge him that. So Sherlock will stretch out fully clothed, coughing from the cold and the smoke and pull out a crumpled little pack of Kents from his pocket and he will pull out the long thin cigarette pinched between two long elegant fingers. His hand will tremble as he raises the cigarette to his lips. He will treat it lovingly, tenderly. Certainly he will show the cigarette more affection than he shows the living. He will almost _moan _at the pleasure of having it between his lips and when he finally lights it on the third attempt, he will fill his lungs with it and he will inflate with the relief of the familiar friend. He will smoke one after the other, long fingers shaking from the cold temperature, his room hazy with cigarette smoke.

Will Sherlock think of him? No, not often. He will be absorbed by the case. It will all be so interesting and new to him. It will be so difficult that it will demand every ounce of his considerable genius and talent. If anyone else were placed in the portrait John has painted, they would be scared and lonely and sad. Sherlock will no doubt be thinking and he will not be bored. Sherlock's mind will be going at a rate of two hundred kilometers per hour. He will probably be in bliss.

Nevertheless Sherlock will certainly be talking to a skull…or, lacking that, probably a stick or something. He'll need an audience sometimes. He'll need to eat and he'll find the task of buying food "boring". He'll probably need to look over his shoulder while walking down the street, never sure if he's being followed, never having anyone to watch his back for him. And in those moments, in those moments where his solidarity becomes a burden, surely in those moments…he must think of John, at least for a moment right? John would never dare think that Sherlock thinks of him with the all consuming dedication that John thinks of him. John knows that Sherlock is not haunted like he is. He knows that Sherlock doesn't turn around on the street every time he thinks he's heard John's voice or caught a glimpse of a man who looks oddly like him.

"But surely," John thinks, "he will spare me a thought when he is lonely. He'll spare me a thought when he wishes someone would make him tea or buy him milk."

Sherlock will probably take his morning coffee at a different café every morning, too cautious to create a routine. He'll ask for coffee and sugar in Swedish or Polish or whatever else language is spoken in wherever he is at the moment. He will look too thin, starved almost, wrapped in his long black coat and thick scarf but he will look gorgeous nonetheless. He'll manage that somehow. He'll look elegant and handsome even while he is bony and stained with nicotine and coffee, with the cracked lips and the dried hands and the eyes…the eyes must be burning more brightly than ever, fueled by hunger, caffeine and cigarettes. Every sense will be heightened. Even as he stirs two spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee, his mind will be reeling, his eyes watching the street quickly, intently. This will probably be a Sherlock he has never seen before, a Sherlock who is using more of his mental capacity and natural reflexes than John has ever seen.

John knows that Sherlock would not have time to miss him or to think of him. He tries to convince himself that he's being silly for obsessing over it.

But sometimes, when the pain of missing Sherlock becomes too much, he allows himself to imagine that Sherlock misses him too. He allows himself to think that Sherlock had paused outside of his apartment before leaving London. Perhaps he'd even watched him from afar at the funeral or in the cemetery. He imagines Sherlock taking a quick nap, only to be woken up by a sound in the hallway of whatever godforsaken place he is staying in. He will probably snap into a sitting position, breathing elevated, his gun drawn at the speed of light, only to find that he is safe. No one is bursting into the room. No one is trying to kill him…yet. Then, he'll put the gun back in his belt and flop down, breathing still too quick, shivering from the cold. There will be the sheen of nervous sweat on his brows and maybe as he rests his head back on the pillow, he will yearn for John, however briefly. Maybe he will realize that John would be prepared to stay awake for him, kill for him, die for him and in that moment of sheer exhaustion and uncertainty about his own safety, maybe he will yearn for John with a fraction of the intensity that John yearns for him.

And in some of John's more detailed, twisted fantasies (because really, it's twisted to fantasize about your best mate missing you) Sherlock will rise from the bed and rest his overheated face on the cool surface of the window. He will sigh with the relief of the cold glass against his fevered face and maybe he will whisper in a cracked baritone, just to make sure he hasn't lost the use of his voice from not having spoken to anyone for so long, maybe he will just whisper: "John."

But this, of course, is all in John's imagination. Sherlock could be anywhere and he could be doing anything and he most likely has no time to give John anything but a passing thought.

* * *

**TRIVIA NOTES:**

**-Both the "gold case" and John buying Sherlock 's book are slight references to the other modern adaptation of Sherlock Holmes: "House MD"**

**-Dr. Bell was the inspiration for Sherlock Holmes in real life and the case that John mentions where he figures out patient histories by looking at them was recounted by Arthur Conan Doyle as an example of Bell's brilliant deductive reasoning.**

**-Sherlock pretending not to know who The Beatles are and then slyly quoting their lyrics was a reference to Benedict Cumberbatch's "Hawking". The BBC Stephen Hawking biopic.**

* * *

**AN: Review? Please? I'm sincerely sorry for minor typos or spelling as I'm editing singlehandedly and I am very busy these days. I'm also sorry for the hiatus. I was out of the country for a few months but I'm back with weekly updates.**


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4 (Part 5/13)**

It takes Sherlock five years to come back to him. John looks everywhere he can think of. He looks for Sherlock. He waits. But for five years there is no sign of him. And then…

Sherlock comes to him barely twenty minutes before he is to be married. John is pacing somewhere in the back room, imagining what Mary looks like in her wedding gown and Sherlock just walks in, wearing a slim black tuxedo. His shirt and bowtie are crisp white. John stares at him for a full minute, frozen in shock and disbelief. He never imagined their reunion to look like this.

He looks at Sherlock again. His lips twitch as if he's fighting the urge to smile, his brows are tightly knit. He is simultaneously anxious and happy to see him. John watches as he searches for words, for something to say. Clearly he has expected John to show some form of reaction.

John refuses to move or make this easy in any way.

"I heard you were getting married," Sherlock finally says.

"Yes," John whispers, staring at him as if he might disappear. He looks exactly the same. Elegant curls. Mouth twisted into an expression of superiority. Eyes scanning through everything.

"I came to say—"Sherlock starts with a pleasant smile, but then the smile drops off his face. "No. I can't. I can't congratulate you. Don't do this John."

"It's been five years," John breathes. His face is wet. Why is his face wet? When did he start to cry?

"I know."

Suddenly Sherlock is in front of him, pulling him into a hug, "I know. I know. But don't do this. Be mine."

"Jesus," John breathes into his lapels, his voice shaking, "we lived together for a year. You disappeared for five years and now you want me to throw everything away for you?"

He can't see Sherlock's face but he feels the hesitation in Sherlock's body. Sherlock's arm tighten around him, unwilling to let him end the hug. "Yes," Sherlock says defiantly after a pause, "I do."

"Well, fuck you," John says, pushing him away with all his might.

Sherlock looks at his feet, hands tucked in his pocket. He looks devastatingly handsome in his disappointment. "I threw everything away for you. I disappeared so you could live."

"And then you stayed away for five years. Never thought about what it would do to me," John says this softly, leaning back against the wall, straightening his tie nervously.

Sherlock whispers something that he doesn't hear. He looks like he is an oil painting, standing there, shrouded in the evening light, his whole body slumped down. But where sadness and disappointment make others look ugly, Sherlock's tall frame looks tragically beautiful in its brokenness.

"What did you say?" John snaps.

"I said," Sherlock raises his voice from a mumble to a whisper, "I said I thought about you every day. It kept me alive."

John has no defense against the way those words make his heart ache. He is sliding down the wall.

"My god Sherlock. It's been five years. That's a lot of time. So much has changed," John repeats, no other defenses left, "I don't even know you anymore."

More than anything this seems to break Sherlock. He looks up at John wide eyed, hurt etched all over his face, hurt etched across every muscle that tenses. He cowers back from John as if John is going to burn him. He doesn't stumbled back with the force of someone who has been burnt or shot. He shrinks back like someone who has been threatened with torture, he shrinks back as if John plans on cutting off every limb from his body as he watches.

"You," he starts, his voice smaller than John has ever heard it, "you're the only person who knows me."

"I knew you five years ago. I have no idea who you are now," John says before he can help himself. He is hurting himself just as much as he is hurting Sherlock. Punishing them both. Why won't anyone stop him? Mary, Mary, Mary. He is doing this for Mary. The person who never abandoned him.

Sherlock is in front of him again, both hands on the wall, palms flat down. One of Sherlock's hands on each side of him, caging him in. The usually dominant position looks desperate in light of the expression on Sherlock's face—he is begging.

"It's me. You must see it John," he pleads, looking into John's face, trying to convince him that nothing has changed, "it's still me."

John's heart gives a little tug. Sherlock must see this because he draws in and takes John's lips between his own, presses his tongue against John's teeth, opens John's mouth with his own. It's sloppy and desperate and John melts under it. And then Sherlock seems to take control of himself and it's soft. He brushes his lips against John's gently, cups his face and deepens the kiss. He presses himself against John, pinning John against the wall. He grinds against John and John chuckles into the kiss because he knows Sherlock is trying to prove a point. He is saying: "Look how much we both want each other John. The evidence is right here between us. Surely even you can't be ignorant of _hard _evidence."

And Sherlock is brushing his lips against John's jaw, behind his ear, against his neck. His lips are there, barely touching, driving him mad. He grips Sherlock's shoulder to steady himself as Sherlock rips his tie apart, starts to undo his shirt. Those feather lips are against the hollow of his neck now. This must be a form of torture because it's driving him mad. He wants the pressure of Sherlock's lips but the evil evil man goes on brushing those perfect lips against his skin, just barely. Sherlock's fingers are steady of his hips.

Sherlock's lips brush over one nipple on their way to John's abs, as if by accident.

"Fuck," John cries, hands snapping up clasp over his own mouth, trying to stifle the noise.. His whole body contorts under the promise of full contact. Sherlock smiles against his skin.

Sherlock is on his knees before him and John knows nothing will ever equal this sight. Sherlock is on his knees, looking devastatingly handsome in his tuxedo, hands on John's belt, eyes lidded with desire. He is panting. He is trembling with want. John is too. Sherlock's lips are swollen. And then Sherlock looks up at him with adoration, hands trembling on John's belt and, with his eyes, he asks for permission.

And John almost laughs with the absurdity of that. As if Sherlock has ever needed his permission to do anything. As if it's John who is doing Sherlock the favor of being pleasured by him before his own wedding—

Shit. The wedding.

There is a knock on the door.

"John. They're ready for you in a minute. You can come out now," says the voice behind the door.

Sherlock's eyes never leave his and he sees John's decision on his face a few seconds before John realizes it himself. In fact, John reads his own decision on Sherlock's face. John reads his decision in the way Sherlock's lips turn into a heartbreakingly sad smile.

He is marrying her today. Mary, Mary. Mary with the emerald eyes. Mary who is smart and funny and saved John when he was more hurt than he could have ever been. Mary. His savior.

Sherlock slumps, rests his cheek against John's knee. Then he takes John's hand and places a feather kiss on the knuckle. He looks up at John and his face is both sad and filled with love.

He rises from his knees gracefully. No sign of abandon or passion on his face. Nothing to indicate that he was kissing John except the slightly swollen lips. He is miraculously put together. John is boneless and panting against the wall but Sherlock is putting him together, buttoning his shirt, tying his tie, combing his hair with his fingers.

"There you go John," he says smoothly, "all evidence removed."

John nods weakly.

"For god's sake man," Sherlock says affectionately, taking John's face in his hands and giving him a little shake, "think of Anderson! Really think of him."

"What?" John stammers, and follows Sherlock's gaze to his own trousers—oh!

He laughs wholeheartedly. "How can I think of Anderson when I've got you right here?" he says softly, trying to show Sherlock with the look on his face that he is breaking his own heart in the process as well.

"Well, try," Sherlock says with a theatric roll of his eyes, putting on a great show of being unmoved by the whole thing, "it would be bad form to get married with…_that._"

John laughs again and takes a moment to compose himself. Then he heads for the door, refusing to look at Sherlock.

"John, I…" he hears Sherlock's muffled voice. Is he…crying? He looks over his shoulder. Sherlock has his back to him, he is looking out of the window.

"I wish you all the _happiness _in the world." His voice breaks quite obviously on the word happiness but other than that he sounds cheerful, calm, genuine. "My best to Mary."

He closes the door behind him and just as it clicks shut he swears he hears Sherlock sob: "I love you."

OoOoOoOoO

He wakes up from this dream with a gasp and chuckles to himself.

_Be mine? _Sherlock would never say that. His dreams are starting be less and less realistic depictions of Sherlock.

OoOoOoOoO

John blames Mary for the new theme of his recent dreams. When he is awake he thinks of nothing but Sherlock's safety and well-being. Has he eaten? Is he in danger? The certainty that Sherlock is alive never arrives in one definitive burst. The idea is planted when he receives the Irene Adler pictures and gains traction when he realizes that the violin-player could only have been hired by Sherlock. It then becomes more and more probable when the headlines are filled with the arrest of assassins and crime syndicates that have eluded capture for decades. It can only be the work of Sherlock.

And John for his part only thinks of how Sherlock is doing and has multiple angry outbursts a day, throwing things at the wall and cursing at Sherlock under his breath because Sherlock has left him behind, because Sherlock doesn't want his company on this most dangerous mission.

But ever since that night, months ago, when Mary had asked him the simple question (do you want to be more than friends with Sherlock?) his dreams had taken a most embarrassingly romantic turn.

Realistically, it had been possible for a post-case adrenaline rush to turn into something more. John could imagine that in the absolute joy of solving a case or in the rush of outrunning a criminal, they could end up kissing in the hallway of 221 B. Or perhaps, after sitting glued to the telly with Chinese takeaway on their laps, they would turn to face each other, the eye-contact would go on for too long and then one of them (they wouldn't remember who made the first move) would finally lean forward and close the distance between them. The cartons of greasy food would fly onto the carpet and John would pin Sherlock down on the sofa and kiss him in the awful jumpy lighting provided by the telly. They would be sweaty and smell of Chow Mein and it would all be worth it.

But John doesn't dream of these plausible scenarios. His subconscious will only allow him to kiss Sherlock if the situation is dire.

In one dream they corner an art thief in his London apartment. Sherlock explains to him exactly how he has solved the case.

"You were almost clever enough but unfortunately, Mr. Murray, your socks are made of cashmere," Sherlock explains calmly. "You could have worn normal socks and walked away with everything but your affinity for fancy wool gave you away. Kindly step aside so John and I can retrieve the Rothco from its hiding place in your sock drawer."

And as Sherlock takes a confident stride towards the wardrobe, everything slows down for John. Because John has served in the army and he has seen men get shot and he knows that the movement of Murray's hand into his pocket means that he's pulling out a gun. Every muscle in his body goes taut and a jolt of electricity runs through his body as Murray reaches into his pocket. Sherlock is mid-stride, he is looking at the wardrobe, he won't see the gesture in time to respond.

"Sherlock," he warns, throwing his entire body forward as Murray raises the gun and fires.

John hears the bullet as his body meets Sherlock's but in split-second they are both on the ground and Sherlock's body is hard and warm beneath his. Definitely not dead.

The door bursts open. Lestrade and his team have arrived just in time to restrain Murray but John doesn't care. He doesn't care that Lestrade is trying to make sure they're okay. He's petrified. He runs his hand over Sherlock's face, his eyes, his throat.

"Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock," he is whispering over and over, like a chant, his hands and eyes searching for any sign of harm. "Oh God, Sherlock, please—

"I'm quite fine John," Sherlock reassures him affectionately, "stop fussing."

And John runs a hand to where his torso meets Sherlock's. Color drains from John's face. He feels the wetness on Sherlock's shirt.

"Sherlock, you were hit—"

"No John," Sherlock sighs, "I'm fine."

John feels sick. Sherlock is delirious, Sherlock has been shot. The world starts to spin impossibly. John raises his hand and sure enough there is blood on it. John and Sherlock both look at the blood-soaked hand for a moment.

And then John has been flipped onto his back and Sherlock is there, white and trembling above him.

"John, _you've _been shot," he says urgently, still shaking, "now I need you to keep your hands right here and press okay? Keep the pressure on."

"Were you aware that I'm a doctor?" John jokes weakly. Sherlock gives a shaky laugh but still looks like he's about to faint as he pulls off his scarf and presses it hard to John's wound.

"Lestrade, call an ambulance," Sherlock barks.

John raises his neck weakly to look at his own bullet wound. The prognosis is clear.

"Sherlock," he says tenderly. He raises his hand. He knows there is blood on it but he can't help himself, he cups Sherlock's face softly, thump stroking his cheek. "I'm not going to make it to the ambulance."

"Stop it you idiot," Sherlock snaps.

"I'm sorry. I'm losing too much blood. I'm not going to—"

"You're delirious."

"I'm right," John reasons softly. Sherlock looks maddeningly attractive when his pale skin is streaked with crimson. What is that pretty red paint on Sherlock's cheek? Ah, it's John's blood. Yes. Blood. John is dying for Sherlock. This is good.

Sherlock is looking at him like he's either going to cry or kill him. But then he does neither and he is kissing John. Sherlock has one hand in John's hair, taking a fistful of John's hair in a way that should hurt but doesn't-considering the gun wound. Sherlock other hand is still pressing against the blood, trying to keep the wound from bleeding out. Sherlock is kissing John into the floor, reckless, unforgiving, fierce. He is also begging against John's lips. "Please," he says. And "don't leave me." And "I'll do anything." And then a hundred more times "please" and "John". But Sherlock's lips never leave his even as he whispers and that side of John that has a sordid sense of humor, jokes in his head: "what a sweet way to die."

But apparently he has said this out loud because there are tears on Sherlock's face now and he is sobbing into the kiss. "You are _not _dying. Please. Please."

"Sherlock, you know I would never deny you anything but…" he doesn't have the strength to go on. Everything feels cold. So so cold. Sherlock's lips take his own once more. The way John is bleeding out, it almost feels like he is melting into Sherlock. He smells so much iron, the air is saturated with iron and Sherlock.

"I'm cold, Sherlock. Could you, please…tell me you love me?" John mumbles before he can stop himself.

"W-what?"

"Tell me that you love me. I need to hear it before—"

"I can't," Sherlock whispers, face tight in anguish, "John. Don't."

"Lie to me. Just tell me. Please."

Sherlock opens his mouth, tries to form the words. John is vaguely aware that he is bleeding all over Sherlock's crisp white button down shirt. The dry cleaners can't get it out. John is slipping away. He feels something like sleep pulling at him. He is very sorry to ruin Sherlock's best shirt.

"I can't," Sherlock says again, trembling with the pain.

"I'm dying for you," John says, numb, "and you won't even give me this. You don't have to mean it…just…the words Sherlock. I need to…I'm scared…"

Sherlock sobs against his throat, anguished, shaking.

He takes a fistful of Sherlock's shirt and pulls him into another kiss. "Okay. Don't say it. It's okay," John concedes kindly, but the hurt is intense. Sherlock has broken his heart, "I don't…wanna…fight with you anymore. I do though."

"Do what?" Sherlock says against his lips, crying.

"Love you. I'm sorry. I just do."

When John wakes up he barely remembers the details of the dream but remembers blood and sweat and kissing and Sherlock.

OoOoOoOoO

John is fighting to free his hands of the rope. He screams through the gag as he watches Moriarty approach Sherlock.

His gun is in his coat pocket, if only he can get one hand free….Moriarty only has two henchmen with him. John is quick with his gun. He needs to get his hand free.

Sherlock's jacket is gone. It's somewhere in the corner. Sherlock is wearing a pink button down. They don't bother removing it before digging the sharpened knife into Sherlock's back. Sherlock twists in pain but he is silent so John screams for him. Screams through the gag as he watches them trace deep wounds into Sherlock back with the knife.

"Johnny boy," Moriarty drawls, pacing in front of Sherlock. Sherlock is on his knees. One of the two men is holding him up by a fistful of hair. The other is mutilating his back, drawing on it with the knife.

"Are you watching?" Moriarty sings. "I want him to watch you watching him getting all cut up for you. Burn."

John needs to free his hand.

"In a few minutes he's going to watch you die for him. He's pretty quiet now but I think that should make him beg out loud," Moriarty tells John pleasantly. "Now boys. I think we should disinfect those wounds, don't you? We don't want them to get all nasty and oozy."

The shirt is ripped off of Sherlock. A bottle of disinfectant is brought out. Sherlock is drenched in sweat and blood. He's pale and limp. As the larger man lets go of his hair, he slumps forward, about to fall flat on his face before Moriarty catches him by the arms and rests Sherlock's face against his own chest.

"Shhh. There there now," he coos to Sherlock, "daddy's got you."

And then disinfectant is poured on Sherlock's mangled back. John knows that it must burn but he can't even imagine how it must feel. Sherlock jerks and twist like an animal. Moriarty holds him steady in an embrace and coos in his ears.

John knows this knot. He knows how they've tied his hands. He just needs to slip a little bit more to the left. And then he can reach for his gun—

Then he sees Moriarty kissing Sherlock's drenched curls mockingly and he snaps. He sees red. That's it.

In one pull he's free. He acts so quickly that they can't see it coming. He has to act this quickly. He shoots the man with the disinfectant first, the man with the knife second. Moriarty is quick, reaching for his own gun but John is faster. He's already shot Moriarty straight through the heart, expertly avoiding any harm to Sherlock.

Moriarty falls on his back and Sherlock falls with him, unable to support his own weight. It's an awful moment, watching the two bodies fall together, their blood mixing together. But John is very quick and in the next second, he drags Moriarty's body away and raises Sherlock to his knees. Hands on his face. Hands on his chest. Hands in his drenched curls. Begging him over and over to be all right. Apologizing over and over.

"I did this," he says, cupping Sherlock's face, their foreheads resting against each other, "you would've fought back if I hand't been bait. I did this."

Sherlock is breathing hard, he is in excruciating pain and John is so torn between getting Sherlock help and staying put. He knows every movement will be agony for Sherlock, but they can't stay like this forever.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Sherlock manages to say through grunts of pain. "I would have died for you. A couple of stabs to the back is _nothing _compared to what I would do for you."

"No, no," John whispers, terrified. He is sounding more delirious than Sherlock.

"You saved me. I'm fine. I'll be fine," Sherlock comforts him. Sherlock is comforting _him_. How did this happen? Sherlock is the one who needs to be taken care of. But then Sherlock is slumped against him completely, buried against his chest and John is sickened to realize that from the outside, they are in the exact same position that he and Moriarty were in moments earlier and this shakes him even more.

But then Sherlock, weak and trembling against him, hooks one arms around him in a half hug and kisses his neck softly, as if to reassure him that he is folding into his arms willingly. Sherlock is kissing whatever parts of John that he can reach, which happens to be his neck and shoulder. And John (careful not to touch Sherlock's back) cradles his head and kisses his curls, his forehead, his eyelids. And then kisses him straight on the lips.

It's not a romantic kiss. They have ages to get to that. They have all the time in the world. It's a comforting kiss. I love you. I'll take care of you. You'll be okay. I'll make sure you're okay. You're not alone. Come here. Give me your lips, give me your pain. I'll take it. All of it. All of you.

Sherlock grabs a fistful of John's jumper. He clings to it, he needs John, he wants John to know he's needed. He buries his face in John's neck, ragged breathing.

"I don't want to move," Sherlock hums.

"We'll do it slowly. If you rest all your weight on me, there won't be a strain on your back. It'll barely hurt. I promise," John reassures him lovingly, lips still buried in Sherlock's hair.

"That's not what I meant," Sherlock smiles against John's neck.

He sounds amused. And happy.

OoOoOoOo

That's it. He is done with dreaming. He is done with dreaming forever. It is time for action.

OoOoOoO

Molly doesn't believe him. He tries Lestrade next and he just looks at him as if he's gone crazy.

"Look mate, don't think that I don't realize how smart he was," he reasons, "but I saw the body. I saw the autopsy report. I'm sorry."

He doesn't try Mrs. Hudson. She'll have a faint at the thought of Sherlock being alive.

He doesn't call Mycroft. He'll just give him another lecture.

He's desperate now. He's survived a few months, reading international newspapers patiently, looking for leads, looking for clues as to where he might find Sherlock. He's waited. He's called Lestrade and Molly, twice each. He goes to visit Mrs. Hudson but can't bring himself to raise the topic. He dials Mycroft and hangs up.

He even day dreams about enlisting Irene to help him but he can't imagine how he would get in touch with her and more than that (because he _could _track her down in Manhattan if he tried hard enough) he doesn't want to imagine the scene of _that _reunion. John chuckles to himself as he imagines a comic scenario in which he finds Sherlock with Irene's help and has to stand by moodily while they have a snog on the desk.

There is only one person left to ask. One person who will never say no to him, never call him crazy, never turn him away: Mary.

He turns up at her flat unannounced on a Saturday. He knocks. He knows she looks at him through the peephole. She is beaming and playful when she opens the door.

"What a pleasant surprise," she says, wrapped in her nightgown. "What brings—"

She stops. The smile melts off her face. She reads it in his face. He's not okay. Suddenly, she is all concern. Her playful stance is replaced by her nurse stature. She pulls him in, pulls him onto the sofa. She is fussing over him. All concern. What's wrong? What's happened? You can tell me John. You can tell me anything. We'll fix it. Whatever it is, we can fix it.

"I think he's alive," John stammers, sinking into the sofa.

Mary is clearly confused but she bites it back and nods. "Okay. Work with me. Start from the beginning."

The beginning? John laughs. What was the beginning? Getting shot? Running into Mike Stamford? Maybe it was the day he moved in and followed danger out the front door. Maybe it was when he wiped sauce off of Sherlock's face with his thumb. Does it start with the looks, the laughs, the pauses, the longing? Or maybe that was all in John's mind. Maybe it just starts when Moriarty plants code in their apartment.

"Oh bloody hell. The code. The code," John whispers. "Maybe it's still relevant. I've got to find the code."

"John," Mary says calmly. "I want to help you."

So John tells her everything. He starts with their first meeting. He tells her about the cases. He tells her all about Sherlock. He describes Sherlock to her with every word that he possesses. And when he tells her about the fall he doesn't tear up because he is too focused on giving Mary the facts.

_The facts are all that matter, John._

Yes. He's learnt this now and he's viciously level-headed as he recounts the whole thing. He needs Mary to believe him. He needs her to.

She nods. That is the only reaction she gives him. She nods over and over. And he tells her everything that has happened. And when he's done, she pulls him into a hug.

"Oh darling," she sighs, looking at him sadly, "you'll find him. I'll help you find him. We'll get him back for you."

* * *

**AN: Thank you so much for the lovely reviews! Please continue to drop a quick word. It really does motivate and I appreciate anything from a quick hello to constructive criticism. **

**Next chapter we'll get to John chasing after Sherlock. Finally!**


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